


The Luck of Fools

by Imperium42



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Gen, Minor Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-06-18 22:17:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15495885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imperium42/pseuds/Imperium42
Summary: Lord Jason Mallister intercepts a letter from Tywin Lannister to Walder Frey regarding the planned Red Wedding on his way to the Twins, and the course of the war is changed forever as new players enter the game and new heroes emerge. Chapters from Jason, Sandor, Robb, Howland Reed, Bronn, and others, with a possibility of Dacey/Robb, minor SanSan, and others later in the story.This was originally a story at Fanfiction.net- will be transferring chapters over regularly!





	1. Jason I

**JASON**

Lord Jason Mallister stared dispassionately at the map in front of him and the letter lain out on top, a frown crossing his clean-shaven features. The three men before him shifted uncomfortably, and but for the steady drum of rain on the canvas tent's roof, the tent was silent until at length their liege spoke.

"Wait? Lord Frey wants us to sit here in this bloody downpour while half the men in the north and my son are feasting themselves sick at Lord Tully's wedding?"

Ser Jerym Haigh cleared his throat and stepped forward, his house's pitchfork sigil glowing softly on his surcoat as his steel plates reflected the light of the brazier burning behind Jason.

"My Lord, the Freys do not mean to spite you. You have been trusted with an important task, escorting the king's own lady mother to safety after the wedding, and I suspect that Lord Frey simply means to make this easier for you. I say we hold here as he says."

"And what do I tell my men?" Jason retorted, his frown growing deeper. He had marshaled a thousand of his best soldiers, as well as his own company of guards, to safely escort Lady Catelyn back to Seagard after the wedding as King Robb had commanded. Every man, though, was expecting that they would be able to attend the feast with Robb's other bannermen. "We brought neither rations to sit here and wait, nor enough tents to keep more than a quarter dry in this downpour. Stopping here on account of the rain was enough of an inconvenience on its own; I'll not accept this, Ser Jerym. Lord Walder will simply have to understand."

The knight opened his mouth to say something else, but then thought better of it and stepped back, his arms crossed and his thick eyebrows furrowed. Jerym Haigh was an intimidating man, taller than most, with short, tufted black hair, a beaklike nose, and coarse salt-and-pepper stubble that did little to conceal a jagged white scar running down his jawline, a souvenir from the Battle of the Trident. Jerym, only nineteen at the time, had been squire to the commander of the Targaryen's reserves, a force several thousand strong composed mainly of peasant levies at the back of the Royalist battle lines. When the tide of the battle began to turn in Robert's favor, Jerym turned traitor, stabbing the commander to death in his tent and convincing half of the levies to follow him in a surprise attack against the Targaryens' exposed rearguard. Suddenly trapped in a pincer, Rhaegar and his van had been forced into a close-quarters melee with Robert and his, ultimately leading to the crown prince's untimely demise by means of Robert's warhammer.

Jerym was knighted after King's Landing fell for his actions at the Trident, and six years later, he fought valiantly at the Siege of Pyke, rushing through the breach alongside King Robert himself after Thoros of Myr and Jorah Mormont. After Balon Greyjoy surrendered, Jason could scarcely refuse the knight when he pledged himself to his service, appreciative of the opportunity to create ties with one of Lord Frey's vassals. Much like Robert Baratheon and Ryam Redwyne before him, however, Jerym, while a keen swordsman and cunning tactician, was ill-suited to life outside of battle, drinking heavily and often seeming cold and distant while serving as master-at-arms at Seagard. He was polite enough when he needed to be, and fought ferociously when he was asked, but as time passed, Jason became more and more certain that he had pledged himself for politics, not out of respect. Perhaps he was too hard on Jerym, but what Lord Frey was asking of them was simply maddening.

Ser Martyn Tallhart, a tall, lean knight with a thick brown facial hair and a fatherly look about him, stepped forward next, and Jason's scowl softened as the man placed a gauntleted hand on his shoulder. In the Siege of Pyke, while Thoros, Jerym Haigh, and Jorah Mormont were rushing through the tower breach at the head of Robert's van, Martyn, along with Jason, Ned Stark, and his cousins, Helman and Leobald Tallhart, had led a party that used a ram to smash through the main gate. The already renowned knight had saved Jason's life more than once as they battered the door down, taking two arrows meant for the lord of Seagard, one with his shield and one with his chestplate.

Jason repaid the favor in kind once they were inside, knocking aside a slash meant to take Martyn's head off, and pulling the knight, armor and all, back onto solid ground when Greyjoy retainers cut the ropes of a bridge he had been crossing. When the battle was done, Martyn pledged himself to the service of House Mallister before the Seastone Chair just as Jerym did. A month later, in place of his late father, Martyn asked Jason's permission to take the hand of his sister, who had been widowed in Robert's Rebellion, and so when Jason accepted the two had been bound as brothers as well as comrades.

"Jason. Stop and think. You know Walder Frey. Above all, he is a proud man. He's commanded Robb Stark, his king, to apologize to him in person for marrying that Westerling girl, and I'm honestly shocked that he didn't demand more. Do you really think that slighting him again, even if he's making a foolish request, will help? If the King in the North and his lords bannermen are both insulting him, it might be enough to make him start thinking that maybe Tywin Lannister would make a better ally."

Jason was confounded at that, and with a grunt he turned to the third man in the tent, whose face was all but obscured by an eagle-head helm of embossed steel. His armor was of a matching set to the helm; of the three men he was the only one who was armed, with a sword sheathed at his hip and a crossbow of lacquered maple and gilded silver strapped to his back over a thick purple cloak.

"Gods damn Walder Frey… Torrhen, tell the men to set up camp as best they can, and send the archers and crossbowmen out to hunt for game for dinner. But if Lady Catelyn hasn't arrived by this time tomorrow, Freys be damned, I'm riding out to the Twins myself."

It was near evenfall, and the incessant pounding of rain on the canvas had slowed to an infrequent tapping, when Jason's squire burst through the tent flaps with a red-faced and puffing crossbowman in tow. Willem Manderly was a pale, lanky boy of thirteen, with long, straight brown hair that ran down to his shoulders and a wisp of a mustache on his upper lip. The crossbowman looked more like a Manderly than Willem, however, with a wide barrel chest and thick red whiskers. He was currently bent over, wheezing and pointing in Willem's direction; the squire was even more pale-faced than usual, his eyes wide and his hand shaking as he offered Jason a wrinkled letter.

"What's this?" Jason asked to neither one in particular, his eyes shifting between the two as he took the letter in hand.

The crossbowman finally straightened and faced Jason, still panting intermittently as he spoke.

"I… I was out in the woods, milord, near the road, lookin' for game… and I shot down a big ruddy crow… or I thought it was a crow… but it was one of them ravens, and it had a letter on its leg… I took it off and checked the seal, thinkin' it would be for you, milord… but I know the Lannister lion when I see it."

That certainly caught Jason's attention. If we've intercepted enemy battle plans…He leaned forward in his chair, watching the crossbowman intently.

"Go on."

"Of course, milord. So seein' as I can't read, I ran fast as I could to your squire, Willem here, knowin' he was more of an educated sort. When he broke the seal and read it, he went pale as a White Walker, and dashed to your tent quick as he could, milord."

Glancing down at the letter in question, Jason turned it over in hand, noting the broken red lion seal of the Lannisters, and above that, written in crimson ink, _Regarding the Wedding of Lord Edmure Tully and Lady Roslin Frey._ Frowning as he once more opened the already folded and wrinkled paper, Jason Mallister read the letter, and forgot to breathe.

_Lord Frey,_

_My informants report that the Starks and Tullies, along with their forces, will soon arrive as scheduled. I for one must commend you on your exemplary planning in this matter, especially with your mission being one so vital. You would do well to throw Catelyn Stark and her brother in your dungeons, but Robb Stark must be put down, along with his companions and as many of his soldiers as possible, or our agreement is meaningless. I find your terms reasonable, and will shield you from judgment. Lord Bolton has been sent a similar message- as expected, he will join you in freeing the Seven Kingdoms from war tonight. For the good of the realm, Lord Walder, I trust you to do what must be done._

_Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King_

Jason was on his feet before the discarded piece of parchment hit the floor. Keeping his face a mask as he retrieved the Mallister family longsword, Reaver's End, from a chest at the back of the tent, he turned to Willem and the crossbowman, gesturing with the point of the Valyrian steel blade.

"Soldier…"

"Lyonel, if it please milord."

"Lyonel, marshal the men. Tell them to mount up, and send the Silver Eagles to me. We ride for the Twins as soon as possible. Willem, help me with my armor and cloak. If we make it in time, I swear by all the gods that I'll knight you both myself."

The Silver Eagles of Seagard were some of the best fighters in Westeros. Each man of the select fifty was chosen for their cunning, bravery, and prowess in battle from among seasoned veterans, and each man had sworn an oath of loyalty to the Mallister in Seagard. Ten years ago, when thousands of Greyjoy men-at-arms were landing beneath the castle walls, and the proud Mallister fleet was being torn apart by Ironborn longships, and the great bronze bell of the Booming Tower was thundering out its warning call for the first time in three hundred years, the Silver Eagles were the only thing that had kept Jason alive long enough for him to slay Rodrik Greyjoy and send his men back into the sea. At Pyke, the Silver Eagles stormed through the smashed main gate alongside Eddard Stark and the Tallharts and their liege lord in his gleaming silver armor; they were the first to reach the throne room, the ones to whom Balon Greyjoy yielded before he bent the knee to Robert.

And so they stood before him now, all steel plates and purple cloaks and eagle helms. They were amount on strong young coursers, their swords and ornate crossbows ready; their commander, Ser Torrhen Mallister, known by his men simply as the Eagle, rode before them on a great black destrier, gazing about to make sure that all were present. Torrhen, the man Jason had sent with the order to make camp, was his younger cousin, and an accomplished warrior at that, earning his knighthood at The Battle of the Bells, where he singlehandedly held back ten and slew five of Jon Connington's retainers before the doors of the town sept. A mane of brown hair much like Jason's fell out the back of his helm, and he looked nearly identical to the lord but for his trimmed brown beard.

"Lord Cousin, my men are ready. We await your word."

Jason nodded, taking his own armored chestnut destrier to a canter, and riding around front of the elite fifty; he waited patiently as Martyn and Jerym assembled the other thousand mounted men-at-arms in formation behind Torrhen's company, calling out to those he knew by name.

"Silver Eagles!" he finally boomed when all had arrived, his eyes roving over every man. "Men of Seagard!" He drew the letter from a pouch in his flowing purple cloak, and held it high over his head. "This letter is proof of a grave truth! Walder Frey and Roose Bolton have betrayed us, and conspire with Tywin Lannister to murder our king at his lord uncle's own wedding!"

A great clamor went up among the men, with shouts of death for the Freys and Boltons, and rallying cries for the king. Torrhen, Martyn, and Jerym quickly silenced them, and nodded for Jason to continue.

"But hear me now! They do not know it yet, but these foul conspirators have already failed! We will ride to the Twins, we will bring the false lords Frey and Bolton to justice, and we will save Robb Stark!"

Jason's words had the desired effect. One thousand and fifty men raised their swords and bellowed out their assent, and somewhere towards the rear they began to chant, the shouts growing until they echoed through the forest around them.

"THE YOUNG WOLF! THE YOUNG WOLF! THE YOUNG WOLF!"

The men continued the chant as they turned and began to gallop to the Twins at a breakneck pace, shouting until their throats grew hoarse. Alongside Jason, Martyn and Torrhen had even taken up the chant, grinning. Sometime later, when the thunderous roar of the mounted company had finally died down into a determined silence broken only by the raging, swollen torrent of the Green Fork at their right, the twin castles of the Freys finally became visible in the growing darkness, two distant shadows looming over the flooded river.

"Martyn", Jason called over the sound of hooves and gushing water, "Take the men and give battle to the Boltons and Freys wherever you find them in the camps; give those traitorous dogs no quarter. Torrhen, Jerym, with me; I want the Silver Eagles at my back."

Martyn nodded, falling back towards the main company to take command. Torrhen raised a gauntleted fist in the air, and the Silver Eagles formed up behind Jason, their weapons at hand.

Few of the reveling northmen bothered to look up as they galloped into the camp beneath the West Castle, drunken as they were. The drawbridge was already lowered, and the portcullis open; Jason rode across without resistance, Torrhen and Jerym at his sides and the Silver Eagles behind him. Leaning hard into his destrier's mane as "The Rains of Castamere" began to boom from the castle, he donned his eagle-winged steel helm and drew Reaver's End. _And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?_ Torrhen and Jason on their great warhorses had outpaced the others, and burst into the cavernous main hall first, alone, to find utter chaos. Robb Stark had quarrels in his leg and side, Catelyn one in her back. She was screaming, but for the thundering sound of the Tywin Lannister's song, Jason could not hear what. Frey men were falling on the Young Wolf's guards as they attempted to defend their king, their steel gleaming in the torchlight; above it all, Walder Frey sat on his throne, drinking the scene in greedily, his eyes on the slaughter unfolding in front of him. _Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know._ Jason was the first to charge.

"SEAGARD!" He bellowed as he rode down a mob of Freys surrounding Robin Flint, the Valyrian steel flashing grey then red as limbs were parted from bodies. Edwyn Frey was the first to notice the unexpected intruders, a look of panicked shock crossing his face before Jason's destrier reared and smashed it in. _In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws._ That drew the attention of nearly everyone in the room, even Lord Walder, whose wispy brows furrowed in confusion as Torrhen put a quarrel through Ser Raymund Frey's back, and Jason sent the head of Hosteen Frey sailing through the air to land at the court fool's feet. The rest of the Silver Eagles had arrived now, filling the hall and blocking the other entrances. _And mine are long and sharp my lord, as long and sharp as yours._

"Shoot them, you fools!" Black Walder Frey roared to a group of crossbowmen in the musicians' gallery, but by then it was too late. At a motion of Torrhen Mallister's hand, fifty quarrels thrummed through the air towards the gallery, and the music died as suddenly and confusedly as the balcony's occupants. Another gesture and the Silver Eagles rallied to Robb's side, cutting through any Frey men in their path before forming a moving circle around the wounded king, shooting down anyone that drew near. While Torrhen led the circle, Jason made for Lady Catelyn at the other end of the room, where she lay bleeding on the floor with a quarrel in the small of her back, feebly groping for a dagger before her. Black Walder stepped in his path, savagely thrusting towards his horse's throat with a greatsword, but Jason turned the destrier away with the skill and grace that came with riding in countless melees and jousting tilts at tourneys, and swung Reaver's End hard and low, near cleaving the man in two. Catelyn Stark wordlessly took Jason's hand when he offered it to her, and with a grunt he lifted her onto the horse behind him. She clung to him with fierce, silent tenacity as he rode for safety, her small hands digging into a gap in his plates as she trembled uncontrollably in the rear of the saddle.

"My lady." Jason said gruffly, setting her down as gently as he could at the center of the ring of horses, next to young Willem Manderly, who was doing the best he could to stem the bleeding where two, no, three quarrels jutted from Robb's limp body. Dacey Mormont and Smalljon Umber crouched by him, the former cradling her king's head in her lap and the latter looking rather helpless. Robb feebly turned his head to look at his mother beside him and Jason looming above him, and opened his mouth. A trickle of blood flowed out, and if the Young Wolf said something then, Jason could not tell for the sound of crashing doors.

Ser Ryman Frey led the company of axemen that had burst into the room, but before he could give any commands, a quarrel took him in the leg, and he fell to his knees with a grunt. The Silver Eagles continued to bombard the axemen with their crossbows as they cantered around the king in the center of their formation, until finally the Frey men mounted a disorganized charge, ragged battle cries at their lips. Without a word from any one of them, the fifty horsemen broke out of their circle, formed into a wedge with Torrhen at the front, and rode hard into the midst of the enemy, swords in hand.

While the Eagle and his men made quick work of the Freys, Jason swung off his saddle to kneel at Robb's side, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Your Grace. We came as quickly as we could. How grievous are your wounds?"

The King in the North gazed up at Jason, his eyes glassy with shock, and once more attempted to speak.

"I'll be… alright… lord… You…"

Robb fell victim to a fit of coughing, and blood spattered across Dacey's dress and Jason's greaves.

"My Lord Mallister," Dacey said quickly, wiping the blood flowing from the king's mouth with the hem of her dress, "King Robb is in no fit condition to speak right now."

 _Of course. What am I thinking, asking a man with three quarrels in him how his wounds are?_ Nodding curtly, Jason stood and turned to Willem, frowning.

"Have you seen Ser Jerym?"

His question answered itself when Ser Jerym Haigh walked swiftly into the room from a door at the far end, a man in dark armor and a spotted pink cloak at his side. _Bolton. Does he not know?_ Jason began to call out a warning, but the cry died in his throat when he saw Jerym drive his sword through a dying Stark man-at-arms. Swearing softly to himself, he stepped forward, alone, to meet them. Blood ran down the Valyrian steel's ripples in rivulets as Reaversbane slid from its sheath.

"It doesn't have to be this way." Jason knew that his words meant nothing, but they spilled from his mouth nonetheless.

"Yes," Roose Bolton replied in his soft voice, "I'm afraid it does."

Jason never knew who moved first, but before he could think to say another word, he was fighting both of them at once in a flurry of shining steel. Individually, he could best either of them, but together they were driving Jason back slowly but surely, raining blow after blow down on him as struggled to stand his ground. Then suddenly Smalljon Umber was beside him, driving Lord Bolton back and allowing Jason to focus on Ser Jerym. Now that the fight was evenly matched, Jason dealt with the man quickly, backing him against a table in a clearly one-sided duel.

"What did they promise you, traitor?" he spat, cleaving Jerym's sword in two with a ferocious blow, and seizing him by the throat. "Glory? Gold? How much did it take to buy you from me?"

"I was never yours." Ser Jerym Haigh gritted.

Without a word, Jason threw his former sworn sword to the floor and drove Reaver's End through his heart, twisting the blade for good measure. Before he had even drawn his sword from the corpse, however, the Smalljon cried out in pain behind him; Jason turned to find him on the floor, clutching a bloodied stump where his left arm had been cleaved at the elbow. Roose Bolton abandoned his defeated foe and turned to face Jason, his pale eyes shining with torchlight even through the slit of his helm. For a time the two lords circled each other like Dornish vultures, blood dripping from the tips of their swords and tracing their paths. When they finally came together in a flash of steel, it happened too quickly to be sure who had attacked first. Their deadly dance brought them across the hall and back; one moment, Jason was pressing the attack, and the next he was struggling to block his opponent's blows. As he parried a vicious swing aimed at his neck, Jason found himself smiling; he hadn't fought a foe half as skilled as this since he dueled Rodrik Greyjoy beneath the walls of Seagard. If the Lord of the Dreadfort was disconcerted, he gave no notion of it, his eyes remaining fixed on Jason's.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, as he stepped back to dodge one of Jason's blows, Roose's foot landed in the pool of blood where Ser Wendel Manderly had fallen with a quarrel in his mouth, and slid. For perhaps half a second, Roose's left side was vulnerable as he recovered, but half a second was all Jason needed. He swung Reaver's End in a savage downward arc, and the Valyrian steel tore a gaping rend in Lord Bolton's armor from helm to midriff. Crimson blood began to leak slowly from the gash as both men regained their footing, and with a snarl Roose struck him full in his uncovered jaw with a lobstered metal gauntlet. Blinding pain shot across Jason's face like a lance, and out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed his own blood spattering across the dusty stone floor; he could taste more in his mouth. Reeling, Jason stumbled back and tripped on Ser Wendel's corpse, clutching at his bloodied face with one hand and brandishing his sword with the other as he fell hard on his arse. A dark steel boot flashed forward; before he could move to dodge it, his hand burst with pain, and his sword flew from his fingers.

Swaying slightly from his wound as he pinned Jason to the floor with his boot, Lord Bolton lifted his own blade, lining up a slash to his foe's neck. He could tell that the injury was beginning to take its toll, though; blood dripped from the rend onto Jason's silvery steel plates, and the Lord of the Dreadfort hesitated before he struck, panting heavily. Seizing the opportunity, Jason grabbed a knife on the floor next to him, dropped during the feast, and drove it deep into the gap between Roose's boot and greave. As he withdrew his leg, howling in pain, Jason sprung to his feet, using the momentum to propel himself shoulder-first into the gash.

The sound that Roose Bolton made as the two lords collapsed to the floor together in a jumble of steel armor was nothing human. Jason quickly clambered to his knees, only to be pulled back down by his torn and blood-soaked purple cloak when Roose rolled on top of it and aimed a brutal kick directly into his forehead. His winged helm spared Jason from the brunt of the blow, but he was thrown onto his back once more all the same, and it flew from his brow. His now bare head slammed into the stones below, and darkness rushed forward to meet him.

"…Mallister!"

"Lord Mallister!"

"Jason!"

Ser Martyn Tallhart was crouching over Jason when his eyes flew open; the man's helm was badly dented, and dried blood was caked in his thick beard from a gash that had split both of his lips.

"Martyn…" he mumbled, taking his friend's hand and slowly righting himself. "…the battle…" The main hall of the West Castle was filled to the brim with bloodied and battered soldiers. For half a moment Jason's stomach sunk with fear that they were Frey and Bolton men, that Martyn had been captured and the Eagle was slain and the battle was lost; then he saw their silver steel armor, and the purple cloth beneath it, and his heart soared in triumph. Torrhen was standing at the front of their ranks, his eagle-head helm tucked under one arm, a smile playing about his lips.

"The battle is over," Martyn finished proudly, "and the king is saved. We have won."


	2. Howland I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one switches up the setting, and is quite a bit meatier than the first one- hope you all enjoy, and that I do the character justice!

**HOWLAND**

Lord Howland Reed watched from under a mottled green hood as the faint, bobbing light drew nearer and nearer through the trees, and chose an arrow from the quiver on his back. All around him he could sense the other members of his scouting party doing the same, though like him, they made not a sound; life in the swamps of the Neck had taught the crannogmen the meaning of silence. He motioned to the poleman, and the small, wooden raft inched forward through the film of duckweed surrounding them, the only sign of their motion scant ripples that quickly dissipated. Drawing a small, squat clay cask from his belt, Howland undid the leather latch that bounded the jar shut and drew off the lid, revealing a thick, viscous fluid as black as the night sky above them. Holding his breath, he dipped the flat, bronze head of the arrow into the cask and withdrew it in a single, swift stroke, before replacing the lid, binding it up again, and fastening it back onto his person.

The other five crannogmen sharing the raft once more followed his lead, though their casks were all of different shapes and sizes, each containing a different substance. When children of the crannogs came of age, all of them aspiring to be hunters fashioned their own equipment from scratch, fletching arrows and forging spears, weaving cloaks and crafting bows. When it came to poison, many used dilutions of the drippings collected from the skin of local salamanders and frogs to slowly tear apart an enemy's bowels from the inside, but the Lord of Greywater Watch preferred to give his foes a quick, clean death. Nightstalk mushrooms rose tall, twisted, and ebony-black from mud banks and rotting logs at the heart of the Neck's swamps, with the largest standing at nearly two feet high. Every crannogman alive, though, knew to turn back at the first sign of them, for all were coated in glistening venom for which no cure could be crafted. If any part of a Nightstalk ever entered the body, it meant a swift end for the luckless victim; even brushing up against one led to the afflicted skin rotting and dying.

The poison in Howland's cask was made from ground Nightstalk caps, collected by seasoned rangers with thick leather gloves that were burned after use, mixed with water and crushed nightshade berries. No man so much as scratched by one of Howland Reed's arrowheads had ever lasted more than half a minute, and no man ever would.  _Not even the Sword of the Morning,_ Howland thought mournfully, lifting his gaze back to the approaching light, and waiting. A bullfrog croaked, crickets buzzed, an owl took to the wing above them, and still the light grew ever closer in the darkness, until Howland could make out the wooden longboat they had spent the past hour tracking. A whale-oil lantern swung lazily from its prow, bathing four Ironborn in its glow: three sitting and one rowing. To be sure that none of his men by some chance miscounted, he held up four fingers before nocking the arrow, the duck-feather fletching brushing against his gloves.

"What do you think he'll do when he finds the bog devils' castle?" One was saying, as he polished a notched steel dirk.

" _If_ he finds it." The rower replied languidly.

" _When,_ " the first man insisted, "he caught the one fucker, he'll catch the rest, mark my words."

"I imagine he'll burn the rotting wooden pile of shit they call a castle with all of 'em still inside," the third one put in, "all 'cept the lord. I'm thinking he'll give that one to the Drowned God, if the men don't tear him to pieces first."

While they all laughed at that, Howland drew, watching the boat and waiting for it to pass directly in front of them.

"I 'ave half a mind to take his wife and see what royal bog devil cunt feels like," said the fourth one, silver and gold teeth glinting in the lamplight as he grinned.

The Ironborn roared with laughter; it wasn't until their mirth had died down that they noticed Howland's arrow buried in the open mouth of the fourth man, so deep that only the duck feathers were still visible. As shouts of shock and dismay formed on their lips, the other five crannogmen loosed their own arrows, and it was over as quickly as it had begun. By the time that they had doused the lantern and driven holes through the bottom of the longboat to sink it, the first lizard lions had already arrived to feast on the bodies of the invaders, rolling and snapping and turning the black water red as Howland Reed and his men melted into the night.

* * *

Dawn was breaking in the eastern sky when Greywater Watch began to loom overhead, a tremendous floating fortress of wood and bronze. Its shape was more or less square, and at each corner thick, coiled ropes lashed to wooden stakes allowed four hulking barges to move the castle in any direction. In the early morning gloom a dozen rafts, poleboats, and floating crannogs bustled around it, carrying soldiers, citizens, and supplies alike; one large wooden poleboat was making its way towards Howland's raft, the Reed banner flapping from its aftcastle. His uncle, Greywater Watch's castellan, stood at the prow, unmistakable even at a distance.

Howland threw back the hood of his dappled green cloak as the poleboat pulled alongside them and lowered a gangplank, smiling a weak smile. Constantly fighting the encroachment of the Ironborn from the west and the Lannisters from the south had drained the life from him, and left him a haggard shadow of the man who had sent Jojen and Meera north to renew House Reed's oaths to Winterfell. Dark purple circles had formed under his bloodshot green eyes, and streaks of gray were apparent in his hair and beard, both of which were already crusted with salt, algae, and mud. Howland couldn't emember the last time he'd washed since he'd heard of Bermarr's death, though he'd cut his lengthy hair short with his bronze dagger, after an Ironborn had grabbed him by it and nearly slit his throat. His dirt-streaked face was drawn, gaunt, and exhausted, sporting several fresh scars to compliment the one Arthur Dayne had left him; of late, many of his raids hadn't gone as successfully as the previous night's.

The man who walked across the gangplank to meet Howland could scarcely have been more different. Laren Reed was a stout chested, bull-shouldered man, taller than Howland and most other crannogmen by half a head, though merely average by outsider standards. Two thick braids studded with bronze rings ran through his already immense beard, clinking together softly as he walked. The oaken haft of a jagged-edged bronze battleaxe jutted out over his shoulder, half-obscured by Laren's mane of long brown hair. Though he was ten years Howland's elder, he looked five younger, and strong enough to snap his thin, reedy nephew in two; he nearly did when he strode up and wrapped his burly arms around him.

"You said you'd be back at evenfall, lord nephew. We were beginning to grow worried."

"All is well, uncle." Howland replied in a voice raspy with disuse. Silence was imperative in raids, and the habit was proving difficult to be rid of. "We've hunted down most of the scouts that had strayed too far south of the Abyss, and Volmark will be slow to send out more men to search for them."

Laren nodded, stroking one of his beard's braids thoughtfully.

"Good, good. There's, ah, something I must needs discuss with you… in confidence."

As he spoke he looked pointedly at the five other scouts on the raft, and Howland chuckled before following his uncle across the gangplank onto the poleboat.  _The Bronze Ox of Greywater Watch has never been a man for subtleties._ A map of the Neck was splayed out across a table in the aftcastle's main cabin, illuminated by the faint sunlight streaming in through a cracked, algae-stained window at the room's rear.

"While you out hunting," Laren began, gesturing to the map, "my own scouting parties brought me word of two ships sailing up the Saltspear and into the swamps, searching for Greywater Watch."

"More Ironborn?" Howland grimaced at the very prospect. Managing the  _Leviathan_ without Bermarr was taxing enough already.

"No, my lord. These were Mallister cogs, flying direwolf banners. Seems like the King in the North has finally remembered that we exist."

 _So Robb Stark has come calling at last…_ Frowning, Howland tried to picture the boy, whom he had never met, but in his mind's eye he saw only Eddard. Unbidden memories rushed to his mind, of Ned cleaving a Targaryen spearman in two on the Trident, Ice in his hands, of his laughing face and his deep voice, of his proud, stubborn honor. But most of all, of that round, red tower in the mountains of Dorne, of blades flashing and white armor and white cloaks stained red with blood, of Arthur Dayne screaming Ned's name, and Lyanna screaming Ned's name, and blood, so much blood… It took Howland several moments before he realized his throat was growing leaden, his eyes wet; he wiped them with a gloved hand, shaking his head and hoping Laren hadn't noticed.  _Focus._ Now was not the time to reminisce. Ned Stark was dead; his son was Lord of Winterfell, and now King in the North.  _Ned would make a better king than any of them,_ he thought forlornly, glancing back up at his uncle.

"Any Stark is a friend of House Reed, but we must needs be sure of their intentions before we guide them to Greywater Watch. Have your men hold them where they are; I will set out and speak with these northmen myself. Oh, and tell my steward to prepare a bath. I'd venture that they'll be more willing to treat with me if I don't have a swamp growing in my hair."

* * *

 

The water was scalding hot, but Howland lowered himself into the bronze tub all the same, proceeding to dutifully scrub away the thick blackish mud that coated nearly every inch of his skin and matted hair, grimacing as he inspected his own body. Beneath the grime, the Lord of Greywater Watch had more half-healed cuts and fading yellowish bruises than he could count, and had to dislodge more than one bloodbug with the point of his dagger; his swollen left shin still sported two blood-crusted holes where a massive water serpent's fangs had punched through his worn leather greaves. As he washed, though, his thoughts began to wander from his own injuries to days long past. While Howland couldn't claim to possess the greensight as Jojen did, he could remember nearly every detail of everything he'd ever seen, from the words of the books he had read as a child to the face of the Ironborn scout whose throat he had slit three weeks ago. He remembered the japes Laren had made on the night of his wedding with Jyana, as well the ones he'd made at his own wedding, when Howland was but one and ten. He remembered riding through King's Landing as it burned, and watching two Lannister soldiers rape a comely noblewoman while a third stabbed her husband, a tall man with a sapphire encrusted doublet that they'd ripped from his chest as he died. When Howland tried to stop them, they'd dragged him from his horse and beaten him brutally- they would have killed him if Lord Tywin hadn't ridden past with Lord Crakehall and a score of guardsmen, and recognized the bloodied face of the man his soldiers were savaging.

And Howland Reed remembered Ned, the nearest thing to a brother that he would ever know. The day scouts brought word of his execution, he'd retreated to his study and withdrawn into his memories, reliving every moment he had ever spent with Eddard Stark for hours on end, until at last Jyana and the children had been able to coax him out. And yet despite all the time Howland had spent laughing and jesting with his friend, the clearest memory of Ned was also the most horrible.

They were seven, against three. Howland had ridden south with the men he had come to love as brothers, Ethan Glover and Mark Ryswell, Martyn Cassel and Theo Wull, the Lords Dustin and Stark. The mountains of Dorne surrounded them, and ahead, at the end of the path beneath their horses' hooves, sat a round, red tower.  _The Tower of Joy, Rhaegar called it._ Before it stood the three finest knights Howland had ever seen, their white cloaks flapping in the wind. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, and grizzled Oswell Whent. Alone, Ned dismounted and strode forward.

"I looked for you on the Trident," he said to them.

"We were not there," Ser Gerold answered.

"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell.

"When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were."

"Far away," Ser Gerold said, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells."

"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them, "and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."

"Our knees do not bend easily," said Ser Arthur Dayne.

"Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him."

"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Ser Oswell.

"But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee."

"Then or now," said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.

"We swore a vow," explained old Ser Gerold.

Howland and the other five men dismounted, drawing their swords as they moved to Ned's side.

"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.

"No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends."

And so they came together in a dance of flashing steel. Lord Willam Dustin and the White Bull dueled long and fiercely, and in the end each perished on the other's blade. Ser Oswell Whent, knowing his death was nigh, charged their line, slashing Theo Wull's spear in two and impaling him in two deadly strokes of his sword. He went on to mortally wound Martyn Cassel before Wull surged to his feet again and nearly strangled Ser Oswell with his last breath; Ned ran him through with Ice as he futilely fought to free himself from dying mountain chieftain's iron grip. At the same time, Howland, Ethan Glover, and Ser Mark Ryswell all made for Arthur Dayne, but to the Sword of Morning the three of them had been naught but flies. With one sweeping blow he nearly cleaved poor Ethan in two at the waist, and with the second he separated Ser Mark's head from his body. Howland barely dodged a third slash aimed at him, and quickly stabbed at the unprotected hip joint in Ser Arthur's armor, praying for a stroke of blind luck.

The gods did not hear him. Ser Arthur easily stepped out of the range of his bronze trident, then brought Dawn's pommel crashing down on his head. Reeling from the pain, Howland stumbled and fell to the ground, blood streaming down his face as darkness rushed to claim him. When he woke, his skull was throbbing so badly that it was several moments before the sound of ringing steel met his ears; he looked up to see Ned Stark and Arthur Dayne locked in mortal combat. Dayne was slowly forcing Ned to the edge of the path, a precipice hanging over a steep, rocky slope, swinging Dawn into Ice again and again, the clash of steel ringing out across the mountains.

Still slow-moving and delirious from his wound, Howland laid his bronze dagger on a flat red rock, pulled out his cask of poison, and bashed it to pieces on top of the blade, drenching it with the thick black liquid. Standing shakily, he grabbed the dagger with a gloved hand and began to lurch towards the two. Gobs of the poison dripped slowly from the bronze, marking a path as he stumbled over a clump of dry sage bushes and fell face-first onto Ser Gerold Hightower's still body. Blood blossomed from where Lord Dustin's sword had pierced the lord commander's side, drying and hardening quickly under the Dornish sun. Howland surged upward again, more quickly this time, his eyes remaining fixed on the two men ahead of him as he continued to stagger forward.

And then finally he was on them, and he was driving the poison-soaked dagger deep into Ser Arthur's back. The Sword of the Morning made a small, puzzled sound, and froze where he stood. Dawn fell from his hands, hitting the red rocks below them with a clatter, and scarlet blood mixed with the viscous black poison began to seep from the wound onto his pristine white plates. He dropped to his knees and removed his helm, though his eyes never left Ned's, even as Howland walked around him to stand at Lord Stark's side.

"Poisoned?" he asked in a weak voice. His face was beginning to purple.  _Never more than half a minute…_

Ned nodded.

"Mercy." Ser Arthur whispered. "The gift of mercy. Please."

Ned raised Ice slowly, reluctantly. Regret was painted clear on his face.

"Lord Eddard,  _mercy!"_ Ser Arthur said again, louder, a plea. The last word echoed through the valley around them.

"I am sorry, ser," Ned replied, before he swung Ice hard and true, and granted the Sword of the Morning his last request.

They did not speak as they returned to their mounts, the only two of their seven who would ever live to see another day, galloping on to the Tower of Joy in silence. Even then it was only Ned who spoke to Lyanna, beautiful Lyanna, dying in her bed of blood in a room smelling of winter roses, to make a promise concerning a child. Howland left the two for a time after that, to give them a final moment of peace before they set out for home. He waited a quarter of an hour, then half, then three quarters, sitting on a rock and telling himself that he was cleaning his dagger. It had only taken him a minute to wipe all of the blood and poison off, but for what seemed an eternity, there he sat, still running the piece of cloth up and down the spotless blade, his eyes fixed on the bodies.

Lord Dustin and Ser Gerold both had peaceful expressions on their faces, so that to all the world they seemed to be merely resting, but for the red blood that drenched their plates. Oswell Whent was lying on his side next to Theo Wull, his face obscured by his helm; Martyn Cassel was draped across a rock not far behind them. Ethan Glover and Mark Ryswell, dismembered by Ser Arthur, were both in multiple places, and already drawing flies. Howland could not bring himself to look at the body of Dayne himself, but eventually mustered the resolve to stand and stride back into the tower. When he entered, Ned was holding Lyanna's cold hands in his, tears streaming from his eyes, his entire body trembling as the baby screamed and cried all the while. 

Separating the two was the most difficult thing that Howland Reed had ever done; no amount of coaxing would convince Ned to let her go, so he had to pry them apart physically, as Ned sobbed and cried out his sister's name over and over. After Howland had made a final promise to Ned, they embraced, then mounted their respective horses and parted ways, Ned riding south to Starfall, and Howland returning north. That was the last time he had ever seen Lord Eddard Stark, and scarcely a day passed that he did not think back and wish that he had said something,  _anything,_ in that final moment.

Howland was drawn suddenly from his thoughts when his wife rapped at the door and opened it slightly, peering inside.

"You haven't drowned in there, have you, Howland?"

"Jyana!" He sat up quickly in the now lukewarm water, a smile spreading across his face. Lady Jyana Reed was of a height with her lord husband, a trait he had come to love since their marriage after Robert's Rebellion. Thick ebony hair ran down to her shoulders in lazy ringlets, complimented by intense chestnut eyes; she had a slight build and full breasts. He stood and swiftly grabbed a cloth towel, drying himself and wrapping it around his waist before hurrying to the door to embrace her. She responded with a kiss, long and deep. "I should have come to you first." He finally gasped, pulling away. "Forgive me, my lady."

"You should have," she replied with a grin, ushering him back into the room, "but you have other matters to attend to now, so I shall have to exact my revenge later. Dress yourself, quickly, now. You know your uncle isn't a patient man."

"That I do." He murmured, donning a plain green linen doublet and a matching cloak fastened about his shoulders with a pale white lizard lion tooth; Howland was not a man of extravagant tastes, and even if he were, silks and samites were hard to come by in the swamps of the Neck. He took Jyana in his arm and strode quickly down the stairs of his tower, into the castle's central yard. Small by typical Westerosi standards, Greywater Watch was merely a cluster of square wooden towers, barracks, and keeps, surrounded by a high wall covered in a layer of bronze meant to deter flaming arrows, should an enemy ever find them. The entire structure supported by a vast wooden base riddled with air pockets to keep the castle afloat, though carefully placed rumors of a floating island helped sow confusion and fear among foes. They had no maester, no knights or masters-at-arms; every child was taught how to hunt and fight and survive by their own parents, and made their own equipment when they came of age; that was all most required.

The Bronze Ox and several of his scouts were waiting for them- as impatient as always, Laren had his thick arms crossed, but broke into a smile when he saw the two.

"Well you took your bloody time." He grunted good-naturedly, gesturing for them to follow him. "What, did you fall into the tub?"

"I had to pull him out." Jyana replied, throwing Howland a mirthful glance as the castle's main gates swung open for them, and the group stepped out onto Greywater Watch's docks. Countless fishing boats, rafts, and barges were moored at the three long, wide wooden piers, their captains and crews milling about in the dappled morning sunlight filtering through the trees overhead. Fisherman's Pier was lined with stalls selling everything from duck and quail breasts to frog legs and shelled turtles; the morning's catches were already being loaded off of countless boats, with three stout men struggling to haul ashore the carcass of a massive grey whiskerfish that must have been twice the size of any one of them. The stalls of Merchant's Pier, on the other hand, vended arms and armor, alchemical ingredients harvested in the swamps, and all manner of trinkets, jewels, and other valuables, often looted from fallen enemies. Howland spotted several Nightstalk mushrooms in a slatted wooden box, and a full set of iron armor engraved with krakens, still stained brown with the blood of its previous owner. Hunter's Pier was much less lively than the other two, with no stalls and few boats docked. Only scouts and hunters walked its length, either returning from a night of patrolling or setting out for a day of it. The poleboat Laren had met them in was moored at the end of the pier, the gangplank already lowered, and the crew aboard.

"Be safe," Jyana murmured, embracing him fiercely.

"Always." Howland replied, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her forehead before he turned to board.

"Don't worry, my lord," Laren called from the pier once the moorings were cast off, and the poleboat was beginning to pull away from the docks, "I'll hold the castle while you fumble over all your formalities with the northerners."

"See that you do, uncle." Howland called back, grinning despite himself. Leaning against the rail, he watched the two receding figures until they faded into the morning mists with the rest of Greywater Watch, and then retreated into the aftcastle. The map of the Neck that Laren had used was still there, but Howland was more interested in the barrels of provisions at the back; the first one he opened yielded mottled red crabapples, the second rashers of salt pork.  _Not a great lord's fare,_  he mused as he took a swig from the skin of water at his belt between bites of apple and pork,  _but after nearly a full day spent with no food to speak of, I would be hard-pressed to complain._ Once his modest feast was over, Howland's eyelids suddenly grew leaden, and before he could stand to move to the bed in the corner, he had already fallen into a dreamless sleep.

"My lord?"

A light sleeper out of habit, Lord Reed stood so quickly at the sound that he flipped the chair he had been reclining in, and nearly upended the table, to the further dismay of the crewman who had reluctantly woken him, a boy who looked to be no older than Meera.

"My apologies." Howland chuckled. "I didn't mean to startle you. I assume that we've arrived?"

"Y-yes, my lord."

"Good. Fetch me the two best hunters on the ship to serve as my guards, and prepare a rowboat."

* * *

"Master Glover, Lady Mormont," Howland began, setting the letter containing King Robb's terms back onto the table and trying his best to exude lordliness, "I find your offer most agreeable. Were I able, I would dispatch my best men to begin leading you around Moat Cailin this very afternoon- but there is one hindrance."

"And what would that be?" Maege Mormont asked, a thin grey eyebrow raised. Bear Island's Lady was as old enough to be Howland's mother, and her dark black hair had long since turned ashen, but she still possessed a warrior's fierceness about her; he could see why her men called her the She-Bear.

"Delron Volmark." Howland replied, his mouth a grim line. "Victarion Greyjoy and the Iron Fleet returned to Pyke when word of Balon's death reached them, but they left  _him_  behind to continue hunting down my castle and harassing my people. This captain is different, though- he's cunning, and brutal at that. He captured and executed my cousin and all of his men, and he's gotten close to finding Greywater Watch itself- too close. Tactically, he and his scouting parties are blocking all access to the northwestern region of the swamps, where I would need to take you to maneuver around the Ironborn at the Moat. Until he's gone, we can't do anything."

Galbart Glover nodded, stroking his beard contemplatively. For a man the same age as Howland, he looked ten years younger, and far more regal. His long, well kempt burgundy hair and matching beard had barely begun to grey, and the mailed fist of House Glover gleamed bright silver on a surcoat the same color as his locks.

"I see… and I suppose you'll be needing our aid in removing this Volmark man?"

"I would not make such a request without compensation in mind." Howland added quickly. "I would be extraordinarily grateful to be rid of this menace to my people. Grateful enough to lead some of my best hunters down the Green Fork into the Riverlands, in addition to guiding you in the assault on Moat Cailin."

Master Glover and Lady Mormont exchanged a swift glance, and stood.

* * *

The Abyss had always made Howland Reed uneasy. A vast expanse nearly a league square, it was completely devoid of any trees or islets, with patches of duckweed and massive green frog pads the only visible signs of life on the surface. The most popular story regarding its origin held that thousands of years ago, in the Age of Heroes, a greedy Marsh King had felled the local trees and used them to build himself a grand, floating palace thrice the size of Greywater Watch. He amassed all of his kingdom's wealth and jewels in the palace, growing fat and rich inside his walls as the people grew poor and starved beneath them. Finally, the gods struck him down and smote his palace and all of its wealth to the bottom of the swamp, cursing the Abyss for eternity. Occasionally, some half-mad adventurer would dive into the murky waters seeking long lost glory and riches, but none ever returned. As he peered over the rail of the  _Sly Vixen,_ Howland could swear that for half a moment he glimpsed the silhouette of a sunken tower beneath the tranquil surface, but it was gone just as quickly.

Far ahead of them, at the very heart of the expanse, a dim orange light flickered through the fog that swallowed the Abyss on humid nights, making it seem all the more damned.

"There." Howland murmured, gesturing towards the distant glow. "That's where he's dropped anchor. He rarely ever sets out himself, just holes up on his ship and lets his men do all of the work."

"And how many men does he have?" Galbart Glover asked from beside him, narrowing his eyes as he stared in the light's direction.

"Originally, I'd say two hundred. By our count we've whittled that number down by around a third, and many of those who remain will be on patrol looking for Greywater Watch when we attack. We'll be facing no more than one hundred men, I promise you."

"Men without honor are anything but predictable, Lord Reed." Galbart snapped, a scowl marring his handsome features. He had developed a healthy distrust for the Ironborn since Asha Greyjoy had stormed his castle in the night, taking his wife and children as hostages. Glover turned to his squire, who had been waiting behind them. "Tom, my Myrish lens."

Tomas Ryswell, a tall, freckled boy of fifteen with a shock of flaxen hair, bowed and rushed off to fetch the instrument in question, leaving his master to brood in sullen silence.

"Forgive me for that… outburst." Galbart said at length, sighing. "That was… unbecoming of me. I simply…"

"I understand. There is nothing to forgive, Master Glover. I have my own reasons for hating Ironborn. But regarding the battle… how many men did you bring as an escort? I regret asking you to use them, but the circumstances are …unique."

"Both ships have a crew of thirty, half of which are soldiers. We have three knights as well: Barbrey Snow, Harrion Flint's bastard son, Cole Cerwyn, and Alyn Vance. Fierce warriors, all. They will not fail you. Ser Barbrey is garrisoned here on the  _Vixen,_ if you wish to speak with him before we join battle."

At that, Galbart's squire returned with a Myrish lens in hand, red-faced and out of breath. It had been years since Howland had seen one; after Ned lifted the siege on Storm's End, as he dealt with the lengthy process of sorting out the surrendered royalist army, the castle's maseter, a kindly old man named Cressen, had shown him a larger version, mounted on a tripod.

"Thank you, Tom. You may leave us."

Galbart lifted the metal and glass tube to his eye, gazing towards the distant light as he spoke.

"And how many men have you marshaled, Lord Reed?"

"I have positioned two hundred of my finest hunters on all sides of the Abyss. When we begin the attack, they will strike from every direction, but until I signal them, they will remain concealed in the treeline and the fog."

"And what is this signal?" Glover asked, lowering the lens.

Howland patted a huge warhorn fastened at his hip, carved from the horn of an aurochs and banded with rune-covered bronze.

"This will wake half of the swamp, but I suppose subtlety is already out of the question."

"Indeed." Galbart chuckled, a grin tugging at his lips as he turned to face the rest of the ship. The  _Sly Vixen_ was the smaller of the two cogs the northmen had sailed up the Saltspear in, but as her name suggested, she was much faster and easier to handle in the tight waters of the Neck. While Lady Maege aboard the larger and heavier  _Brazen Butcher_ distracted the Ironborn, the  _Vixen_ was to take them from the rear and signal the crannogmen Howland had assembled to join in the assault _._ Boxed in on all sides by a larger force, even the most battle-hardened captain couldn't last long. "If you'll excuse me, though, I must needs speak with my men before we join battle."

As Galbart made for the hold, where the cog's fifteen Mallister and Glover men-at-arms were preparing for battle, Howland returned to the aftcastle, where the bastard knight Master Glover mentioned would be bunked. Ser Barbrey, as it happened, found him first, nearly running into him as he turned a corner. The man was taller than Howland by nearly a head, with short, thick black hair mussed from his helm, and a handsome, clean-shaven face. He was garbed in simple, unadorned plate and mail, his helm tucked under one arm and a bastard sword slung across his back, over a short, ragged cloak that might have once been grey.

"Beg pardon, Lord Reed." He said warily, gazing down on him with the pools of liquid steel characteristic of House Flint. When he wasn't accosted, he turned and moved to leave, until Howland called after him.

"You are Ser Barbrey? Lord Flint's…" he nearly said  _bastard,_ but thought better of it. "…natural-born?"

The knight scoffed, shaking his head and replying wryly.

"Of course not, my lord- I'm of the famous House Snow. Surely you've heard of my brothers Jon and Ramsay."

Howland cringed, but quickly shook it off, paying the sarcasm no heed.

"Forgive me if I have offended you, ser. It was not my intent. I was simply curious as to how…"

"How a bastard became a knight?" Barbrey finished, smirking. "Everyone's curious about that, aren't they? That and my name, I suppose. Do your people have storytellers, Lord Reed?"

"Of course." Howland blinked, a bit surprised by the sudden change in topic. "It's a greatly respected tradition- many of my people shun reading and writing in favor of the old ways of being one with the crannogs, so traditions and history are passed on orally. Why do you ask?"

"It's a sadly dying artform in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, or at least so I think. The maesters have the monopoly on history, and all they do is write, not talk. But my father loved to tell me stories when I was a child, and I find that I've inherited it. It calms me, I think, particularly before battle."

The crannogman nodded in understanding.  _What a curious man._

"We seem to find ourselves on such an occasion. By all means, Ser Barbrey, tell your story."

"Well, my lord, to skip to the bit you asked about, no one would take a Snow as a squire, so I went and got my knighthood at the same battle everyone else did- Pyke." He leaned against a wooden beam and drank deeply from a skin of wine before continuing. "I earned mine on the beachhead, though, not in that siege everyone loves to fawn over. It was right ugly, that fight. Archers took out a third, maybe half of the men we landed; the sand was stained red, there were so many bodies. And the screaming… That was probably the worst part. Arrows don't always kill clean; I had to give two men the gift of mercy. Once we were about halfway up the beach, a Greyjoy longship swung in real close behind us and started loosing shafts, so we were under fire front  _and_ back. I dropped down and used some knight's body for cover until one of Lord Redwyne's war galleys came 'round and put down the longship. A Brax man, I think he was; I remember seeing a unicorn on his armor, only it was covered in blood…"

"It sounds brutal," Howland replied quietly as Ser Barbrey paused to take another swig of wine, shaking his head. In Robert's Rebellion, he had seen his fair share of bloody battles, but little to match what Snow was describing. He felt a sudden pang of guilt for not coming to Lord Stark's aid when he called his banners during the Greyjoy Uprising, but shrugged it off. Crannogmen were built for neither naval combat on the open ocean nor charging through breaches in a siege. His best hunters would have been practically useless.

"Only until we got up the beachhead." Barbrey continued with a shrug. "After that, we met up with King Robert's men and didn't have any trouble from there to Lordsport. That final push was something else, though… By then I'd moved past the Brax knight up to a space behind a boulder, where the rest of the men who'd made it were forming up. Halys Hornwood, Jason Mallister, and Quenten Banefort, our three commanders, were getting everyone ready for a charge on the archers… and seven hells, was it a charge. Lord Hornwood blew on his warhorn and we all came running out from behind that rock around both edges, screaming like the Stranger was at our heels. Lord Banefort must have taken five arrows in his shield by the time we got to them, and one or two in his armor, but I doubt he noticed. I doubt I would have noticed, we were all so focused on getting to the other side. When we did, it the fight was hardly even fair. Lord Mallister cut their commander, Lord Blacktyde, in two like he was made of wet paper, and I myself killed a Botley and two Goodbrothers with Blackfang here, more than enough for a knighthood."

He unsheathed the bastard sword and gazed at it wistfully, a smile spreading across his face. A smith had worked black hues into the steel, so the lengthy blade shone like polished dragonglass when Barbrey held it in the moonlight. The silver crucifix hilt was wrapped in well-worn leather around the grip, and the sigil of the Flints of Flint's Finger, a stone hand, was wrought in greyish steel in the pommel.

"A fine sword," Howland agreed, "and expensive, as well, by the look of it."

"A gift from my lord father," Ser Barbrey admitted sheepishly as he sheathed it, "on my coming of age. It served me well on the beachhead, and when we burned Lordsport. It would have served me well at the siege of the castle, too, if it wasn't for Varon Harlaw. The Harlaw sigil is a scythe, and Varon fought with one as tall as a grown man, and wicked sharp. I was in the Lordsport harbor, helping torch any ships still anchored when he came running down the pier at me, bellowing like a mammoth and waving that scythe. I had no shield, so I tried to parry him; didn't turn out to be one of my better ideas."

Snow unfastened his right pauldron and lifted it, pulling back the mail and tunic beneath and revealing part of a massive, curved scar. "The whoreson nearly took my sword arm off with one blow. He would have taken my head next, if some Baratheon crossbowman hadn't heard him shouting, and shot him in the gut. The quarrel knocked him off his feet and into the harbor, and his armor did the rest. I was alive, but I was bleeding more than I knew I had blood, and if you'd given it a good hard yank, you probably could've pulled my right arm off. They put me on a longboat and sent me back to the fleet out in the bay; Lord Hightower had brought his some of the Citadel's maesters with him to treat the wounded, so I spent the rest of the battle on an Oldtown dromond, drinking milk of the poppy while Robert and his men stormed the breach."

He sighed, fastening back the mail and plate and donning his helm.

"By the old gods and the new, if I end up in the seven hells, I'm going to find Varon Harlaw and shove his scythe up his bloody-"

_BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom._

Talk of posthumous revenge forgotten, both men turned and drew their weapons out of instinct. When they saw one of the  _Vixen's_ crew pounding on the huge drum under the mast, they exchanged a swift glance and bolted to the front of the ship.

_BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom._

Past the bow, the dim, distant light Howland had seen earlier was now a burning forest of torches and lanterns, cutting through the fog and illuminating the long, sleek shape of Delron Volmark's massive war galley,  _Leviathan._ Named for the sigil of House Volmark, which was sewn onto both dark grey sails, the ship more than lived up to its namesake; it was nearly three times the size of the  _Vixen,_ rivaling even the dromonds of the Royal Fleet. Its sides bristled with ballistae and scorpions, and between its fore and aft masts, a catapult had been mounted on a swivel.  _This ship alone could destroy Greywater Watch,_ Howland realized, his eyes wide. Beside him, Barbrey Snow swore viciously. The bronze trident in his hands suddenly felt much smaller.

_BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom._

As they drew closer, they could see Ironborn rushing around on the  _Leviathan's_ decks, hear the clash of steel and the thrum of ballistae. The catapult flung a barrel of burning pitch through the night, and for a moment Howland could make out the outline of the  _Brazen Butcher_ on the war galley's opposite side. Then, in the flickering light of the distant torches, he saw them, and red rage gripped his heart. Bermarr Reed had been two-and-twenty, but already the finest hunter Howland had ever seen. Given command of Greywater Watch's hunters when the Ironborn invaded, he had assembled a team of ten, the Ghosts of the Neck, to serve with him: Morvayn Blackmyre, Donnyl Fenn, Karlas Quagg, all hand-picked killers coming from nearly every clan of the crannogmen. While the entirety of the Iron Fleet had been blindly fumbling its way through the swamps, looking for Moat Cailin, The Ghosts of the Neck had preyed on the stragglers, killing over one hundred men in a span of two days, and never once being seen. All the while, he had coordinated the other scouts and hunters with the skill of a master tactician, directing them to block paths through the trees and funnel the Ironborn into tight corridors and dead ends, to lay traps and coordinate ambushes. The proud Iron Fleet had left a trail of nearly two hundred dead when it finally reached the Moat, and Bermarr was a hero.

He bled them in the same manner when they heard of King Balon's death and returned to the Iron Islands, and thought he would do so again with Delron Volmark's men when he was left behind. For a time he did just that. When Volmark dispatched patrols, the Ghosts would hunt them down; near thirty of Delron's men had died in such a fashion. But where the other captains Bermarr had dealt with were simple-minded brutes, Volmark was clever and cunning. Whereas most nights he sent out multiple longboats to patrol several regions of the swamp, on a clear, moonless night he sent only one, crewed only with a rower and a single soldier, who stood at the prow and held a huge whale oil lantern visible for nearly a league around the boat. Following their normal procedure, the Ghosts concealed their raft beneath a tree and waited until the boat passed by, whereupon they easily shot and killed both Ironborn without a sound. When the man at the prow fell into the waters of the swamp, though, so did his lantern. One bright light guttered out, and twenty more flickered to life in a rough circle surrounding the longboat's last position. Bermarr Reed was a caged rat. The Ghosts tried to fight their way out of the trap, but the Ironborn cornered them on a mudbank and slaughtered all of them but Bermarr and his lieutenant, Morvayn Blackmyre, who were bound and gagged and brought back to the  _Leviathan._

Once he had dipped the nine butchered Ghosts in tar and strung them from his war galley's yardarms, Delron took Bermarr's cask of poison from his belt and forced his mouth open, pouring its entire contents down his throat as vengeance for the Ironborn he had killed while Morvayn watched, helpless. Once Bermarr was dead, Volmark had dipped his own dagger into Blackmyre's poison cask and nicked him on the arm. The captain then bound him to a rowboat by his legs and commanded him to return to Greywater Watch and tell Lord Reed everything that had happened. With nowhere else to turn, Morvayn had done as asked, divulging every detail and trying to provide as much information on the  _Leviathan_ itself as he could while he continued to grow weaker by the minute, falling victim to his own poison, a slow-acting but lethal mix of serpent and spider venom. With his last breath, Morvayn Blackmyre had begged Howland to kill Delron Volmark, and as Lord Reed gazed upon the ten rotting bodies, his young cousin's foremost among them, he knew beyond a doubt that he would, slowly and painfully.

_BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom._

The  _Leviathan's_ crew had finally noticed the second cog, and several arrows and scorpion bolts began to fly towards them, but by then it was too late. The _Sly Vixen_ was practically on top of the Ironborn, the bronze ram Laren had fitted her with cutting through the water like a knife.

" _BRACE!"_ Galbart boomed from the aftcastle when they were perhaps ten seconds from impact, and the drum grew silent. Howland grabbed onto a piece of rigging with his left hand; with his right, he drew the bronze-banded warhorn from his belt, sucked in a deep breath, and blew.

_AAAAHHHhhooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo._

The sound rolled through the Abyss like thunder, echoing through the fog around them. Ahead the  _Leviathan's_ flank loomed ever closer, but Howland lifted the horn to his lips once more all the same, calling out to his hunters.

_AAAAHHHhhooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo._

Not a moment after he had lowered the warhorn, the  _Vixen_ slammed into the larger war galley with a colossal crash. The crack of splitting wood filled the air, and Howland was flung forward, the rope slipping through his fingers. He would have been thrown into the water if not for Ser Barbrey, who grabbed him by the hood of his mottled green cloak with a gauntleted fist, holding him until the cog ceased heaving. While the  _Leviathan_ was far too massive to have been sunken or cut in two by the impact, it did list heavily; as he clambered to his feet, Howland could see Ironborn soldiers doing the same, and noted that two scorpions and a ballista had been knocked over, or away from their firing positions.

And then the grappling hooks were sailing across the gap, and gangplanks were being thrown down. Galbart Glover was the first to cross, bellowing  _DEEPWOOD MOTTE!_ as he cut down the first two Ironborn in his path. Howland and Barbrey were close at his heels, trident and bastard sword ready, and then all of the fifteen men-at-arms poured over the planks, silver hands and silver eagles flashing on their armor in the torchlight. Two men were taken by scorpions as they crossed, the force of the impacts knocking them back and into the murky depths below, but most made it, shouting warcries of their own as they fell on the paltry number of Ironborn defenders who had broken off from the battle with the  _Butcher._ Howland hamstrung a man as he reloaded a scorpion, bringing his trident to bear and making a red ruin of his throat once he crumpled to the deck. Behind him, Barbrey Snow was dueling a huge Ironman who boomed  _ORKMONT! ORKMONT!_ with every blow; the cry turned into a scream when Lord Reed slipped up behind him and drove his trident into the man's thigh.

As they fought, more and more of the crew saw through the ruse, switching sides to deal with the boarders, until finally they were trapped against the rail, doing their best to throw back surges of Ironborn. Galbart was dueling three men at once, struggling to protect a wounded Glover retainer, as Barbrey fought back to back with a Mallister man-at-arms, their swords and armor dripping red. Howland had climbed back onto a gangplank, where he stood above the battle, raining down a stream of poisoned arrows on the  _Leviathan's_ crew, but it wasn't enough. He watched in terror as an Ironman sent Master Glover sprawling to the deck with a spear-thrust to the back, raising the weapon above his head for the killing blow. Then Laren Reed was burying his bronze battleaxe in the man's head, and Howland's hunters were swarming across the vast war galley's deck like hornets, their bows twanging and their bidents and tridents gleaming as they took the Ironborn from every direction. They were in the rigging and on the masts, they were racing across the deck in twos and threes, cutting down the ship's crew wherever they went. Howland leapt from the gangplank with trident in hand, rejoining the fray with vigor as the Bronze Ox carved a bloody path towards him.

Trapped between the men from the  _Vixen_ and the crannogmen, the Ironborn who didn't bolt while they had the chance were felled swiftly, and the two sides were united with a ragged cheer. Laren threw down his axe and embraced his nephew ferociously, laughing his deep laugh; if Howland hadn't been wearing bronze mail and boiled leather under his cloak, his back would likely have snapped like a twig.

"We cannot celebrate yet!" Galbart cried from behind them, his sword pointed towards the other side of the  _Leviathan,_ where the rest of the war galley's crew was fending off both the  _Butcher_ and the hunters. "Forward, men!  _CHARGE!"_

This time Howland joined in the shouting as well, crying  _FOR GREYWATER WATCH! FOR NED! FOR NED!_ as he made for a group of Ironborn defending the catapult, Laren at his side. Formed in a series of lines, the men put up fierce resistance, but with archers whittling away at them from above, and a throng of victory-drunk soldiers pressing forward, they soon broke. Ser Barbrey clambered onto the swiveling platform with Blackfang in one hand and a torch in the other, cutting down the four men operating the catapult in short order and setting the siege engine ablaze, to the adulation of the men beneath him. While they cheered and the flames roared, Howland heard a large  _thud_ from behind him, and pivoted to find that the hunters on the masts were cutting loose the tarred bodies of the Ghosts of the Neck from where they had been hanging on the yardarms.

"We'll put them on the  _Vixen_ with the wounded when this is all over!" He called to Laren, who was moving towards one of the corpses. "For now, we have to finish this!"

The other men apparently shared the same sentiment; they were surging around the burning catapult towards the far rail and the remainder of the  _Leviathan's_  crew with swords in hand, flanked by hunters. Letting the Bronze Ox catch up to them on his own, Howland sheathed his trident and began to scale a patch of rigging, opting to join his archers on the main mast. It was only when he had climbed onto the starboard yardarm, and was able to see the battle below, that he truly realized how easy the  _Vixen's_ mission had been. As a distraction, the  _Brazen Butcher_ had taken the brunt of the massive war galley's offensive efforts, as even a cursory glance would reveal. Her sails were both afire from the barrels of pitch flung by the catapult, and her hull was riddled with ballista missiles and scorpion bolts, some of which were spreading fires of their own. A fleet of longboats was gathered beneath her, their Ironborn occupants using grappling hooks to scale the cog's sides. Even a small river galley, one of two that Volmark kept moored to the  _Leviathan_  to serve as heavy scouts, was circling her, sending flaming arrows and scorpion bolts towards her aftcastle, where Maege Mormont and the  _Butcher's_  fifteen men were holding out against the Ironborn boarders. Groups of hunters were attempting to reach the besieged ship, but the  _Leviathan_ was gutting their efforts completely. Two scorpions tore apart a raft and its occupants in mere moments, and a huge poleboat filled with crannogmen was foundering, pierced by countless ballista missiles.

On the deck, Galbart had noticed the other cog's predicament as well, and was leading the men to attack the crews of the siege weapons, shouting something that Howland couldn't hear above the noise of battle. Settling into position on the yardarm between a Greengood and a Cray, he unslung his bow and nocked an arrow, drawing and loosing it in a single fluid motion. It struck home in the shoulder of an Ironman who had been aiming a ballista at a raft full of hunters, and he fell to the floor, convulsing; Howland had dipped his entire quiver of arrows in the cask at his belt long before battle was joined. Next, he felled an axeman pushing Barbrey towards the rail, then a scorpion operator, and a charging spearman after that. Then… Howland froze.  _Volmark._ The captain was unmistakable, just as Morvayn had described him, clad from head to toe in grey steel armor. The helm was fashioned in the shape of a roaring leviathan's head, and a row of steel spikes and scales ran down the neck and back, emulating the rest of the creature's body. In his gauntleted hands he held a massive, driftwood-hafted halberd, its blade and stabbing point forged from the same dark grey steel as the armor.

A pair of hunters on the deck saw him emerging from his cabin as well, and moved to flank him, their spears poised to strike. Without a word, he lowered the halberd and surged forwards, impaling one of the hunters below his leather breastplate before he could move to dodge, and twisting the haft. The second hunter screamed in rage as the first screamed in pain, charging Volmark from behind and jabbing at the small of his back. Delron sidestepped the blow effortlessly, then backpedaled with surprising speed, slamming him full in the face and chest with the spiked section of his armor. The unfortunate crannogman howled in pain, blood gushing down his leather plates, but Volmark continued to move backwards until he hit a nearby wall; the hunter was crushed and torn apart by Delron's weight pushing the spikes into him, his limbs flailing for a moment and then growing still. Once the man was dead, Volmark retrieved his halberd from the first hunter's torso, snapping his neck with a grey steel boot to hasten his death, and plunged headlong into the melee.

Pure rage coursing through his veins, Howland strung an arrow and drew, aiming for a joint in the captain's armor and motioning for the Greengood and Cray beside him to do the same. Just as the three men were about to loose, the mast itself heaved and tilted backwards, throwing the Greengood from his perch and nearly doing the same to the other two.

"Fire!" a deep voice Howland knew to be Laren's shouted from below. "Get down,  _fire!"_

He glanced down in the voice's direction, his eyes growing wide when he saw the blaze his uncle was referring to. The fire Ser Barbrey had started to destroy the catapult had spread across nearly a quarter of the deck and halfway up the main mast, which was beginning to collapse with him still on it. Swearing, he grabbed the Cray archer by his cloak and pulled the man along with him towards the nearest patch of rigging, praying that they would be able to get down in time. The gods seemed to have a particular loathing for Howland Reed, though; the mast came crashing down onto the aftcastle when the two crannogmen were halfway towards the rigging, throwing them to the deck below like rag dolls. After half a minute he was able to push himself slowly to his feet- his entire body ached, he knew when he moved to stand that he had broken several ribs, and his nose as well, judging from the amount of blood dripping from it. The Cray hunter had not been so lucky; his leg was bent in a fashion it certainly wasn't meant to bend in, and he was swearing fiercely.

"Stay here." He said hurriedly, glancing behind him. "Don't try to move unless you have to."

As soon as the man grunted consent, Howland pivoted and raced to the lower deck, his trident ready. The remaining  _Vixen_ men and the hunters had pushed the Ironborn against the  _Leviathan's s_ tarboard rail, and were gradually whittling down their numbers. Many of them had been forced to abandon their ballistae or scorpions, and with much of the pressure on her relieved, the  _Butcher_ had broken free from the circle of longboats, and was sailing hard for the larger war galley's flank, her own bronze ram glowing with reflected moonlight. This time, Howland was ready, having braced himself on a rail much more firmly than he had the first time as the  _Butcher_  grew closer and closer; over the sounds of battle he could hear Maege Mormont screaming  _BRACE!_ just as Galbart had. Despite his preparations, he was still nearly thrown backwards when the cog impacted with a massive _crack_ and the  _Leviathan_ began to list, though he fared better than most of the combatants, who were tossed back and forth across the deck in a jumble of flashing steel and shouted curses.

Taking advantage of the situation, Howland darted around the edges of the group of men, his trident flashing in and out and laying low three Ironborn before they could rise. He was moving to gut a fourth when a harsh, deep voice boomed out across the deck.

" _REED!"_

Howland turned to see Delron Volmark's massive halberd arcing downwards towards him; he threw himself away from the blade just as it crashed into the wooden deck in a flurry of splinters. The captain wrenched it out again just as quickly, and swung it in another savage arc that would have opened him from balls to brains had he not ducked under it, stabbing at Delron's hip joint just as he had stabbed at Ser Arthur's all those years ago. Instead of stepping back, though, Volmark stepped forward, bringing an armored knee into Howland's face and breaking his nose for the second time in a span of five minutes. As he stumbled back, growling curses, the captain continued to advance, doubling him over with a kick to the gut, and throwing him onto his back with a crushing blow across the chest with the halberd's haft. His trident lost, he reached desperately for the bronze dagger at his hip, but a grey steel boot smashed his wrist into the deck with an audible crack, and his curses turned to a wordless cry of pain.

"This is for every Ironborn you killed, bog devil." Volmark growled from behind the leviathan-head helm, resting the halberd's spear point under his chin and beginning to slowly push it forward. "For every one of my men you slaughtered from the shadows, hiding like the craven you are." The tip broke the skin, and blood began to run down Howland's throat. Delron started to say something else, but he was interrupted when Laren Reed plowed into his side with the force of a charging aurochs, throwing the larger man to the ground, armor and all. The Bronze Ox raised his axe and brought it down hard, aiming for the Ironman's head; Volmark tried to roll out of the way, but his bloodied spikes caught in the wood, and he ended up merely twisting onto his side. The axe glanced off of his plates, not penetrating, but Laren had put enough force into the swing to break several ribs, as it surely did. Spitting curses, Delron pulled himself free and staggered upwards, bringing his weapon to bear; he caught Laren's next blow in the driftwood haft, and met the one after that with the blade.

From there they were dueling in a storm of bronze and steel, halberd and axe clashing again and again, each seeking the opening that would spell the other's doom. Both men fought with raw, brutal strength, holding nothing back, but of the two, Volmark was taller, stronger, and better armored; blow for blow, he was winning, driving Laren back towards the fire with savage thrusts and slashes that swiftly reduced his bronze plates and boiled leather to a torn ruin. Every time the crannogman tried to counterattack, he was rebuffed, but even so he kept fighting.  _Run,_ Howland wanted to scream.  _You can't win like this; you have to tire him out. Trying to best him in a duel won't work, uncle, you blind bloody fool._ But the words refused to come to his mouth, and Laren Reed kept trying to beat Delron Volmark the only way he knew how.

Eventually, his efforts proved futile, just as Howland had known they would; Delron forced him to his knees at the edge of the blaze with a series of devastating blows, cutting Laren's battleaxe in two at the haft when he raised it to defend himself. The Ironman was struggling to hold Reed down long enough to finish him when a gangplank crashed onto the  _Leviathan's_ rail, and the She-Bear of Bear Island leapt onto the deck, battle-hardened Mormont retainers at her heels. Together with Galbart Glover's men and the hunters, they surged through the circle of surviving crew members like a wave, leaving a wake of blood and death behind them. Lady Maege was braining Ironborn left and right with her mace, while the two armored men at her sides, surely the knights Cole Cerwyn and Alyn Vance, were proving equally adept with axe and sword. When the screams of his men reached his ears, Volmark kicked Laren hard in the forehead, sending him sprawling and unconscious to the floor, before turning and charging back into the main fray.

His wrist screamed in protest, but Howland pushed himself to his feet all the same, gritting his teeth and struggling to ignore the blood streaming down his face and chest. Laren had fallen at the edge of the fire that was gradually consuming the ship, and the flames were licking at his long hair and beard by the time Howland grabbed his right ankle and began to pull. The Bronze Ox proved as stubborn as his namesake, though, refusing to budge despite his nephew's exertions. Howland was considering attempting to push him from the other side when the war galley heaved beneath him, throwing him to the deck once again, and shifting Laren out of the flames' grasp. For a heartbeat, he thought that another ship had rammed them, but then he saw that the waterline was slowly rising, and he knew.

"OFF!" He bellowed, waving to the northmen. "GET OFF! THE SHIP IS SINKING!" His hunters in their light leather and mottled green linen could swim as well as any man, but the Glover, Mallister, and Mormont men-at-arms in their heavy steel plate and mail would sink like stones, joining the greedy Marsh King in his drowned palace.

Galbart and Maege saw the danger as well, and quickly began herding their retainers onto the  _Butcher;_  the fire was consuming the port rail, where the  _Vixen_ had rammed and boarded the larger ship had already sunken so low in the water that the men had to run uphill over the gangplank to reach the cog, but thankfully, none fell in the process. Finally, of their attacking force, only the three knights, along with Howland, Laren, and a group of hunters remained on the foundering ship, opposite Volmark and the _Leviathan's_  last surviving crew, five haggard and blood-soaked Ironmen who stood defiant at their captain's side.

"Tell the boy I'm proud of him." Delron said suddenly. Howland froze where he stood.

"Beg pardon?" said Ser Alyn Vance, a dashing young man with long chestnut locks who fancied himself Aemon the Dragonknight reborn. A dragon was inlaid in onyx on his pearl white armor, and dragon heads adorned his pauldrons and vambraces as well. His helm had onyx dragon wings, but he had removed it during the momentary respite to wipe sweat from his brow.

"Maron," Volmark continued, oblivious to his ship collapsing around him, "my lord nephew. He'll make a right good reaver, that one. Always thought so. I meant to give him the  _Leviathan_ when he came of age, but I don't suppose I can do that now." The captain chuckled, a harsh, rasping sound.

"If you mean to win us over with pity, then your efforts are in vain," Ser Cole Cerwyn said in icy tones, turning his double-edged axe in hand. The Cerwyns had developed a deep loathing for Ironborn since Theon Turncloak slew Lord Cley at Winterfell, and that wasn't like to change now.

"I don't mean to win you," Delron replied, lowering his halberd. "I mean to kill you."

At that he charged, thrusting the spearpoint toward Ser Cole's chest; his men dashed forward beside him, joining battle with Barbrey Snow and the hunters. Cole raised his shield, but the tip still plunged straight through the wood before catching barely an inch from his breastplate. Volmark tried to wrench it out to no avail, so instead he ran forwards, using his sheer size to shove Cerwyn to the ground just as he had done with Howland. The knight slashed desperately at his attacker's knee and hip joints, and even managed to draw blood before Delron pried his halberd free, lifted it, and plunged the point into Ser Cole Cerwyn's neck, caving in his steel gorget like it was parchment.

"NO!" Ser Alyn cried in distress, racing forward, his helm donned and his sword ready. Delron turned to greet the second knight, swinging his halberd with him, but Vance met the blade steel for steel, driving his sword forward ferociously. Howland moved towards Volmark as well, albeit slowly and more cautiously, clutching his bronze dagger in his left hand as his right hung limp at his side, throbbing with pain. He couldn't hold his trident, let alone fight Volmark head-on; he had to find an opening, attack him from behind. While he had lost his cask of poison when he fell from the mast, a dagger in the back could be just as lethal without it. Nearby, Ser Barbrey and the remaining hunters had separated the five Ironmen, and were dealing with them one-by-one while their lord and the other two knights fought their captain.  _One, soon._ Howland thought grimly, glancing to Ser Cole. Blood was flowing freely from beneath his crumpled gorget, and while he was still breathing, it was shallow and rapid. He had half a mind to give him the gift of mercy, but Delron demanded his attention. Ahead of him, Alyn Vance was holding his own quite well against the captain, meeting him blow for blow and slashing again and again at the joints where Cerwyn had already wounded him, until finally Volmark collapsed to one knee with a grunt. Howland seized his chance and darted forward, his dagger plunging deep into the man's back through a gap the grey steel plate.

Then suddenly the armor was white, and black poison was dripping from the wound, and the Sword of the Morning was begging Ned to kill him. Howland was about to say something when Ser Arthur's armor grew spikes, and he surged backwards, curses flying from his lips. He woke from the memory and dived out of the way too late; a spike dragged across his face, leaving a river of white-hot pain behind it. Howland stumbled and nearly fell onto the blood-soaked deck, cradling his head in both hands and gritting his teeth so hard that he was shocked that they didn't shatter. When he forced himself to open his eyes through the blood and sweat that soaked his face, Volmark was struggling to push back both Ser Alyn and Ser Barbrey as blood streamed down his leg and back, his pants audible through his helm. Nearby, the hunters had finished the five Ironborn, and were lifting Laren by his arms and legs, carrying him to the prow of the ship; they could never hope to drag the Bronze Ox unconscious up the narrow, sloped gangplank, and so their best hope was bring him to whatever craft they had arrived on. Howland had dropped his dagger when Delron's armor tore his face apart, and for a moment he began to search for it, until his eyes fell upon a much larger prize.

Howland Reed had never fired a scorpion before, but now seemed as good a time as any to learn. The previous operator had been kind enough to load the siege machine before he died, and so once he had dragged the man's body off, the only task left for Howland was to pull the trigger.  _If I can get a clear shot at Volmark,_ he thought sullenly, turning the scorpion about to face the  _Leviathan's_ captain and gazing down the shaft. After several adjustments, though, he finally had Delron's hulking figure squarely in the sights; only the two knights were blocking the shot.

"VANCE!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, his fingers ghosting over the trigger. "SNOW! GET CLEAR!"

Alyn and Barbrey paused mid-stroke, hesitating for half a moment before backing out of the way, leaving Volmark standing alone before the roaring blaze that was consuming his ship, broken and exhausted. When the captain saw the scorpion and realized what was happening, he tried to run, but with his injured leg, he was half a beat too slow. The bolt took him in the chest, punching through plate and leather and skin and bone before finally slamming to a halt when it hit the steel covering his back. Blood gushed from the hole, washing down Delron's breastplate in a scarlet sheet as he swayed, struggling to stand.

"What is dead…" he choked, even as crimson began to flow from the leviathan's roaring maw, "may never die." At that Delron Volmark fell backwards, landing in the fire behind him with a crash. The flames danced around his lifeless body, boiling the blood covering his grey steel armor in a hissing red cloud as the three men watched, their faces solemn.

After what seemed like an eternity, a hunter called Howland's name, leading the group to the war galley's prow, where a poleboat was waiting for them, along with Laren and the tarred bodies of the Ghosts of the Neck. Where they had boarded the ship with horn-blows and war-cries, they left her in silence, still watching as water rushed over her rails, gutting the raging fire and dragging the _Leviathan_  and her dead crew into the Abyss, where the Marsh King's watery hall awaited.


	3. Sandor I

**SANDOR**

In mere minutes, the Crossing had descended into mayhem and butchery. Below the two castles, the proud soldiers of the North and the Trident were dropping like flies, cut down by Frey and Bolton men-at-arms as they fled, or burned alive in their tents; Sandor Clegane could barely hear himself think for the sound of screams and steel.  _And I thought Joffrey was an evil cunt,_  he mused as he slid on his dog-head helm. _The Freys will burn in seven hells for this._

"My brother…" Arya Stark was saying, standing from beneath the overturned wayn. The She-Wolf's eyes were wide, shimmering in the reflected light of a thousand fires.

"Dead," he snapped, scowling.  _What the hell does she think is happening?_  "Do you think they'd slaughter his men and leave him alive?" He glanced again to the butchery in the camps, gesturing with the blood-soaked axe he had stolen. "Look.  _Look,_ damn you."

Even as he spoke, two knights bearing the banner of House Vypren rode down a fleeing Stark man-at-arms, their swords flashing downwards. The catapult on the roof of the castle above them  _thrummed,_ and a barrel of flaming pitch exploded atop a massive canvas pavilion flying the giant of Umber, engorging the blaze already consuming it.  _So much fire,_ Sandor was thinking with a shudder, when he realized with a start that the music had stopped; where a moment ago "The Rains of Castamere" had been booming from the West Castle above the sound of the massacre beneath it, now the hulking stone structure had gone eerily silent. Shaking it off, he turned back to Arya.

"Come with me." He extended a hand. "We have to get away from here, and now." Under him Stranger threw back his head, his nostrils flaring. The warhorse didn't want to linger a moment longer, and neither did Sandor; still, though, he held out his hand to the lost-looking little girl standing beneath him, waiting.  _Getting yourself killed isn't worth her ransom,_ part of him knew.  _Run while you can, leave her if she wants to die with her brother._ And yet he lingered, as rain pattered on his helm and ran down Arya's long pale face, like tears.

"We're  _here_ ," she insisted, her voice high and thin. She was about to say something else when a wave of riders broke upon the burning camp, bellowing warcries as they swarmed around tents and pavilions, swords and axes and spears poised to strike.  _There must be a thousand of them_  he realized, his heart sinking.  _We waited too long. There is no escape for us now._

"Get behind me." He barked, raising his axe and wheeling Stranger about. Arya obeyed, snatching a dagger from one of the men he had killed as she ran. Sandor Clegane almost chuckled at the sight.  _At least we'll both die fighting, she and I,_ he thought, steeling himself as a small group spotted them and broke off, bringing their horses to a canter as they approached the overturned wayn.

"And who would you be fighting for on this fine night?" Called their leader, a thin, lanky man as tall as Sandor, with an equally long, hooked bill in his hands. The silver eagle of Mallister was emblazoned on his surcoat, the same as the men who had ridden into the castle a while earlier, though Sandor didn't know if Lord Jason was one of the traitors, or true to the Young Wolf; he had seen Haighs, Charltons, and Vyprens taking place in the killing along with the Freys and Boltons, all vassals or close allies of Lord Walder.

"I might ask you the same." He finally retorted, bringing Stranger forward out of the gatehouse's shadow.

"For the one true king, Robb Stark," the man began, though he trailed off when he saw Sandor's helm, sucking in breath as the other riders in his group shouted in shock.

"It's the bloody Hound!"

"Kill him, Tom! Kill him!"

"Seven hells!"

"Lannister dog!"

 _That's right, you cunts, be afraid,_  he thought, smiling crookedly under the helm.  _Men who are afraid die easier._

The tall man sat in shocked silence for several moments, then surged forward quicker than Sandor could blink. His bill's hook found a gap in Sandor's armor at the shoulder and he pulled back hard; before he could swing his axe, he was tumbling from Stranger's back, landing on the wet ground face-first. Mud surged through the snarling steel dog's mouth and into his face, foul-tasting and rank with blood. He twisted onto his back, groping for his axe, but that only made the mud run into his eyes, stinging like hellfire. Then the tall man's bill was at his throat, his boot on his chest.

"Lyonel," he called, his eyes never once leaving Sandor's.  _Smart man. Otherwise, I'd have already shoved that bill up your ass._  "Fetch Ser Martyn, tell him it's urgent."

A barrel-chested man with flaming red whiskers nodded, turning his own garron and galloping off towards the main camp. Once he had gone, the tall man tightened his grip on the bill's haft so hard that his knuckles turned white, his brows furrowing.

"Now tell me, Sandor Clegane, what the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"He was bringing me," Arya suddenly said, stepping out of the shadows before he could find the words. She walked slowly and cautiously, the stolen dagger raised as her eyes shifted from man to man. Several guffawed and sniggered, but the tall man remained relatively composed.

"Some farmer's daughter you made off with, Clegane? I didn't know you liked yours so young." The circle of riders around them roared with laughter at that, but the She-Wolf simply stamped her feet, red-faced and indignant.

"I'm not some farmer's daughter, you stupid, I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell! That's my brother and my mother being killed in there!" A hush fell over the men, and Sandor grinned despite himself. "You said you served King Robb," she continued after a long moment of silence, "so take me to him!"

The tall man was about to reply when another voice spoke up from behind him.

"Let me see your eyes, girl."

Blinking through the mud, Sandor shifted to watch as a brown-bearded man with the Tallhart sentinel trees on his armor stepped forward, the red-whiskered man at his side.

"What?" She lifted the dagger warily, pointing it towards him and stepping back.

"I just want to look at your eyes," he persisted, setting his sword flat on the ground and raising both hands in the air as he approached, "to be sure that you're telling the truth."

 _Starks have grey eyes,_  he suddenly remembered. Lord Eddard's own had been the color of wrought steel, harsh and unyielding; Sandor had seen them wide with shock when he joined the Gold Cloaks in cutting down his guardsmen before the Iron Throne. Arya's were only slightly softer, but they were often marred with loathing when she looked at him, the fiend who killed her precious butcher's boy. Sansa, though, was more Tully than Stark; her eyes were a deep blue, kinder and more beautiful, just as she was. In her chambers, while the Imp set fire to the Blackwater, he had lost himself in those eyes, for a moment wanting nothing more than to kiss his Little Bird then and there and stop her chirping.  _I made her sing instead,_  he recalled bitterly. It all seemed a lifetime ago. In front of him, Arya slowly lowered the dagger, letting the Tallhart step forward, though she never loosened her grip on it. The man took a knee, his plates sinking into the thick muck, and leaned forward, looking her dead in the eyes.

"Gods be good," the knight finally said, his head bowed, "Lady Arya…" A wave of murmuring rippled through the mounted soldiers; even the tall man looming over him looked awestruck. "My lady, we must needs get you far away from this madness as soon as possible. Someone, fetch a horse!"

"No, you don't!" She protested, crossing her arms. "My family is in there, we have to save them!"

"Lord Jason and his personal company of guards are saving the king and Lady Catelyn as we speak, my lady. They'll be alright, I promise you, but we have to keep you safe as well."

"No." Arya declared, implacable. "You'll take me in there this very moment, I command it, or else my brother will hear of this!" Sandor laughed aloud at that, ignoring the mud in his mouth.  _Seven hells, the girl has spirit. Good thing her sister isn't so cocksure, or Joffrey would've had her pretty head off months ago._

"Very well." The knight replied grudgingly, turning to the tall man. "Long Tom, take your men and escort Lady Arya inside. Find her family, and try to avoid the fighting if you can help it." Then his gaze fell on Sandor, who was finally able to stand again, and his fatherly-looking features turned hard. "I have half a mind to cut you down where you stand," he said bluntly, "but I'd like to think that I'm an honorable man. You will go with Tom and the escort, and explain to Lady Catelyn exactly what you were doing with her daughter. You will await her judgment and the king's afterward. Rivers, bind him."

Before the tall man could move, Sandor took one huge step forwards and headbutted the Tallhart. The man's helm took the brunt of the blow, but one steel tooth caught on his lips and dragged downwards, splitting both of them.

"I will not be bound, old man." He snarled in tones that brokered no argument, as blood spilled into the knight's thick brown beard. To his credit, he never so much as flinched, meeting Sandor's eyes through the dog's head and responding calmly.

"You test me, Clegane. Do you want to die, is that the way of it? When you're so close to finally getting the ransom that you surely seek? If so, Long Tom would be happy to oblige you."

Sandor could feel the man with the bill moving up behind him, see the riders around them grasping their swordhilts, and suddenly the fight left him. He was tired of fighting.

"Fucking cunts," he muttered, holding out his hands. The tall man with the bill, whom the others called Long Tom, stepped around him and bound his wrists together with a length of hempen rope, eyeing Sandor warily as he worked. Smiling smugly even through his cut lips, the Tallhart knight retrieved his sword and mounted his horse again, a handsome grey palfrey.

"I'll join you in the castle as soon as we finish here." He called, pulling down his visor. "Good luck, Rivers."

After he galloped back into the main fray, Tom's men dismounted, three guarding Arya, three guarding Sandor, and the other eight spread out in a loose circle around them as they crossed the lowered drawbridge, their swords ready.

"He called you Rivers." Arya said, looking up at Long Tom. "Doesn't that mean you're a bastard?"

"Aye." He replied, smiling. "Tommard Rivers, if it please milady, but most just call me Long Tom. Some petty riverlord sworn to House Mallister had me on one of the castle maids while they were visiting Seagard, but for the life of her my mother can't remember if he was a Lolliston or a Keath, and Lord Jason didn't think it would be proper to go 'round asking. She turned me over to the captain of guards when I came of age, and I've been a soldier ever since."

Not a moment after he finished speaking, one of Sandor's guards fell with an arrow in his gullet, blood pouring from the wound onto the slick wet wood of the bridge and flying from his mouth when he tried to scream.

"Archers above!" Tom cried. " _Go!"_ Sandor lifted Arya into his arms (no easy feat with both hands bound), and the entire party broke into a sprint for the other side. Frey arrows continued to rain down on them from the West Castle's battlements as they ran, claiming two more men before they reached the portcullis and the inner chamber, panting. Just as Sandor set her back onto the floor, though, pain lanced though his shoulder, and he fell to one knee with a grunt.

"Murder hole! In the ceiling!" Someone shouted, before he went down with a quarrel in his chest. Another man had been killed after him by the time the red-whiskered man, Lyonel, was able to shoot the Frey defender through the hole with his own crossbow, bringing the band of fourteen down to nine.

"It looks like we may have need of your services after all, Clegane." Tom produced a dagger from his belt and quickly proceeded to slash Sandor's bonds, grudgingly handing him back his mud-covered axe.

"You're hurt." Arya pointed out, gesturing to the quarrel sticking from his shoulder. It hadn't penetrated deep, but blood was leaking from the wound all the same, flowing lazily down his arm and back and side.

"This is the bite of a flea." Sandor growled, snapping the quarrel's end off and pressing forwards ahead of the group, axe in hand. The great oaken doors to the main hall were closed, muffling the sounds within; before them, three Frey men-at-arms were falling on a Piper, a Stark, and a dying Vance, led by a knight whose steel plates bore the Charlton mistletoe. Breaking into a run, Long Tom shoved his bill's stabbing point through the nearest Frey's back; he had already wrenched it out and moved on to another when Sandor and the others caught up to him, making quick work of the common soldiers. The Charlton knight proved more resilient when they cornered him against the doors, killing one man and wounding two more before Arya slipped around him and drove her stolen dagger into the back of his knee. Sandor proceeded to brain the wounded man with his axe, while Lyonel pinned him to one door with a quarrel.

"Thank you," the Stark man gasped as the Piper rushed to the Vance's side, lowering a bloody carving knife. "By the gods, thank you… Ser Arryk, the Freys, we were drinking with them, laughing, and then they… Ser Marwyn…"

"They will pay for what they have done tonight." Tom declared, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "With blood and gold and honor, they will pay."

As the Vance died, Tom and the others wrenched open the opposite door; inside, the armored Mallister riders that had crossed the drawbridge earlier had dismounted, and were currently dragging Walder Frey bodily from his throne, despite the old man's feeble kicks and protests.

"It wasn't me," he was saying to the Mallister commander a, tall man whose long, dark hair spilled out the back of an eagle-head helm, "I swear it… Lame Lothar and Ryman, it was them, they forced me to go along, they threatened to kill me! They were conspiring with the Lannisters, and Roose Bolton too…"

The commander slapped Lord Walder hard across the face, making no attempt to hide the rage in his voice.

"Hold your lying tongue, traitor, lest I dirty my blade with the vile filth that flows through your veins in place of blood. Be grateful that King Robb will strike your head off as soon as he is able; I would not make your death so easy."

"Ser Torrhen!" Tom called, striding across the room at the head of the group, his bill in hand.

"Rivers?" The commander looked up from Lord Frey, recognition clear in his voice. Then he saw Sandor, and his sword sang as it slid from its sheath. "What is this, Tom? What in seven hells is  _he_ doing here?"

"Bringing you bloody northmen your she-wolf." Sandor threw back, gesturing to Arya.

Ser Torrhen froze, incredulous.

"She-wolf?"

"Ser Torrhen," Tom declared, backing away to reveal the girl, "I give you Arya Stark, Princess of Winterfell."

Torrhen and his men stood dumbstruck, and the room fell silent but for Walder Frey.

" _Heh. Heh_. You say Arya Stark, I say some farmer's whelp."

Tommard scowled, and Torrhen's gauntleted hand came flashing down again, drawing blood this time, a weak trickle that flowed from bare pink gums.

"She has Lord Eddard's grey eyes," Tom growled, "Ser Martyn Tallhart himself has confirmed it. Her legitimacy is not in question, Frey."

Lord Walder grinned a bloody, toothless grin.

" _Heh_. Grey eyes could mean a Stark, indeed, but they could also mean a Karstark, or a Flint, or a Bolton, or a Cerwyn… in fact, I seem to recall that grey eyes run in some branches of House Mallister. And here she is, brought back from the dead by Lord Jason's own men,  _heh_. Isn't that convenient?"

"Gag him," Torrhen Mallister snarled through gritted teeth, glancing to one of his lieutenants, "and toss him in a cell with the others. I can't bear to have him in this room for another moment."

The man hurriedly complied, and Ser Torrhen turned to the ragged group below him once more.

"We've moved King Robb, Lady Catelyn, and any other survivors to Lord Walder's bedchambers; take some of my men and escort Lady Arya there at once - there may yet be Freys and Boltons lurking about on the lower floors."

Tom nodded, and once several Silver Eagles had joined their ranks, the group made for the door, a mob of steel-clad, bloodstained warriors with Arya Stark at their center.

"Not him." Torrhen called grimly as they turned to leave, gesturing to Sandor with his sword. "Not yet. Tommard, if you would?"

"With pleasure." Rivers replied from somewhere behind Sandor; exactly where, he could not tell with his helm donned. Swearing fiercely, he tried to draw his axe, but the throbbing pain in his shoulder slowed his reach, and the grip was slick with mud and gore. He had barely begun to turn when the bill's wooden handle crashed into the back of his helm, and the world went dark.

* * *

Sandor Clegane awoke with a scowl on his face, a distant, throbbing pain at the back of his head, and the whimpering of a boy in his ears. His eyes shot open, but dried mud and blood coated them, obscuring his vision and reducing the dank, gloomy room around him to a mess of blurry shapes and textures. He felt cold, wet stone at his back and beneath his legs, and realized with a start that his armor was gone, leaving him clad only in sweat-stained rags; his hand shot to his side out of instinct, only to find nothing there. He was naked, vulnerable. Sheer panic gripped him for half a moment, and he surged to his feet, his eyes wild and his heart racing. His head hit an unforgiving stone ceiling with a sickening crack, and pain tore through his skull like a lance, forcing him to his knees with a howl of agony and rage. Hot red blood welled from the point of impact, flowing steadily down the back of his neck as he gritted his teeth and forced his eyes open once more. This time, his surroundings came into focus quickly, and his location soon became apparent:  _a dungeon. All I did for them, and they put me in a fucking dungeon._

As he had so painfully discovered, the room was small and cramped to say the least; its vaulted stone ceiling, which was slick with water and algae, was so low that only a child around Joffrey's age could possibly have stood fully upright ( _or the Imp,_ Sandor mused with a shadow of a grin); lengthwise, it could have fit perhaps two men lying end to end, and two short men at that; its width was scarcely more than its height. The floor and walls were fashioned of the same stone; the only exit visible was an aging, rusted set of iron bars set in the wall to Sandor's left, behind which a flickering torch gave the room its only light. Through the wall opposite the door, he could hear the sound of rushing water, and with a sinking feeling he truly realized where he was. The Drowning Rooms were the infamous prison cells of House Frey, matched in reputation only by the Black Cells of the Red Keep. Located beneath the castles proper, they were cut deep into the banks of the Green Fork, with only a stone wall and a few feet of packed mud and clay separating them from the river itself.

They had earned their name honestly- nearly fifty years past, a knightly cadet branch of House Charlton, vassals to House Frey, had rebelled against Lord Walder and attempted to seize the Crossing, led by Ser Cedric Charlton, a charismatic man well-loved by the smallfolk. With more and more of their own peasants defecting to his cause every day, the Freys had nearly been beaten; it had taken a both all the troops Lord Walder could muster and a royal intervention force sent by Aegon V and led by Ser Duncan the Tall to finally bring Ser Cedric and his army down beneath the gates of the Twins. After razing the cadet branch's keep and all of the towns that had aided them, Lord Walder imprisoned Ser Cedric himself and several of his ranking officers in the newly constructed cells, on the pretense that they would be tried and executed soon after. That night, though, in the midst of a torrential downpour which swelled the Green Fork full to bursting, the walls of three of the eight cells had buckled and collapsed under the weight of the water, drowning nearly half of the prisoners, including Ser Cedric, and conveniently preventing him from being martyred at the noose or block. The three flooded cells remained so to this day; the smallfolk still held that they were haunted by the rebels' tortured spirits. House Frey, of course, had denied any involvement in the accident ever since, pointing the fact that three of their own guards had been killed as well, though no one had ever truly believed them.

As the torch outside the room waxed, casting a pale beam of amber light across the opposite end of the cell, Sandor realized with a start that he was not alone; two figures were huddled in adjacent corners, an aging man and a pimply youth. Both were dressed in the same rags as Sandor, and both looked as if they had seen the Stranger himself, shrunken against the wall, their eyes wide with fear.  _Freys,_ he knew. He had seen the man at enough of Robert's endless tourneys and feasts to recognize him by his bald head and wormlike beard as Ser Aenys; the lad he knew by his blemished face- Petyr Pimple.  _Gods, this is just fucking perfect. I bring them Arya Stark, and they lock me in a Drowning Room with an old man and a sniveling boy._

"Fucking cunts," he muttered, ignoring the echo and sitting back down sullenly. After a while, Petyr began to whimper again, clutching at the head of an arrow lodged in his leg; the shaft laid at his feet in a puddle of blood.

"Quiet, boy!" Aenys hissed, glancing hurriedly in Sandor's direction.

"One of the Mallisters stuck him." Aenys continued after another deafening silence. "He was trying to surrender, the bloody coward."

"There were three of them!" Petyr groaned, his wide, feverish eyes flitting between the two. What was I supposed to do?!"

"Fight!" The older knight snarled. "I brought down one of the bastards before another took me from behind. They got you in the same fashion, it looks like, Clegane."

When Sandor remained silent, Aenys began to slowly edge towards him, his every movement echoing throughout the chamber.

"Forgive me for asking, but how did you come to be here? Lord Tywin himself must have sent you to see the plan through, am I correct? I had always been suspicious of the rumors that you had deserted the royal family…"

"If you take one more step towards me," Sandor broke in as calmly as he could muster, "I'll snap your fucking neck. Got it, Frey?"

The silence that followed lasted through the night and into the morning (or, so he told himself), though Sandor never slept. He simply leaned back against the stone and listened to the Green Fork rush by, until finally, after what had to have been half a day, the iron bars swung open, and the Greatjon of Umber leaned through the doorway, his beard unkempt and a cloth bandage hastily wrapped around a wound on his battered face.

"You ," He grunted, gesturing towards Sandor, "with me. Now. The king wishes to have words with you, though I can't fathom why."

Ser Aenys rose as high as he was able and began to protest, but faltered when Lord Umber drew a bloodstained sword that looked like nothing more than a dagger in his massive, gloved hand, and placed its tip squarely on the knight's chest.

" _Just_ the dog. Did I say anything about you, worm-chin? I've cut down five Freys with this blade since last night. You want to be number six?"

The old man closed his mouth and practically flung himself back into his corner of the cell, muttering either apologies or curses under his breath.

"Thought so." the Greatjon scoffed, spitting in Aenys' direction before turning once more to Sandor. "Alright, come on, then, get up. Unless you prefer to stay, which, mind you, I would be perfectly content with."

* * *

Robb Stark held his audience in the chambers of Walder Frey, lying in the lord's bed, surrounded by a swarm of maesters tending to his wounds and bannermen seeking counsel. His bare chest was crisscrossed with bloody bandages, and it didn't take a discerning eye to tell that death hung over him; whether or not it would claim him was any man's guess. Catelyn and Arya sat around a nearby table, conversing in hushed tones; when Sandor entered the room, flanked by Umber retainers and the Greatjon himself, both stood. The Widow of Winterfell regarded him as a mother bear would a hunter, wrapping her arms around her child as she met his gaze with blue eyes as cold as ice.

"I am told I have you to thank for returning my daughter to me." She said bluntly.

"Aye." He replied. "And I believe…"  _that you owe me a ransom,_ he wanted to say. But his eyes wandered to Arya's face, still dirty and covered in mud and blood, her eyes watching him with apprehension, fear, and anger swirling in their grey depths, and he faltered.  _That's what they want you to say. That's what they expect you to say._ "…that it was an honor." He finished.

Catelyn Stark raised a thin red eyebrow, opening her mouth to reply and then closing it again. What she was planning to say, he would never know; the Greatjon prodded him towards the King's bedside before she could respond.

Sandor was met by yet another group before he reached his destination; the Lords Mallister and Bracken both stood vigil over their king, the former in full plate metal still stained with blood, with a hastily wrapped bandage about his head to match Lord Umber's. The two parted when he approached, but not without casting wary glances in his direction.

"Sandor Clegane," Robb Stark began in a voice barely above a whisper, "what am I to do with you?"

 _Am I supposed to answer that?_ He wondered, frowning. Thankfully, he was soon spared the uncertainty when the Young Wolf continued, the weakness of his voice forcing Sandor to lean forward to hear him; out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Jonos Bracken grasping the hilt of his sword.

"You'll still get your ransom, of course- I won't deprive you of that- but what afterward? Do I let you go? Risk you running back to Tywin Lannister and earning three times the gold I can give you in exchange for information? Or do I try and execute you for your crimes, send you to the gallows or the block with the Freys and their lot, ignore the service that you've done my family?"

"I'd trust you to do the honorable thing," Sandor replied coldly, "but having your men knock me flat and throw me in a Drowning Room really wasn't the honorable thing, was it?"

"Forgive me. I did not give the order, but it was a necessary precaution, even if it was executed more harshly than I would have liked. I assure you that my family and I feel nothing but gratitude towards you for bringing Arya back to us, but neither I nor my bannermen can overlook your past."

The King in the North sighed, closing his eyes and cradling his head in one hand.

"It seems I have quite a bit of considering to do yet. At midday, the Greatjon will deliver an address to my bannermen in the courtyard; I'll have given him my verdict regarding you by then. Until then, you're dismissed, Clegane; I'll have my men find you some more suitable quarters, though I can't give you free reign of the castle."

Sandor scowled, his eyes narrowing as two Umber guards moved to escort him out.

"Understood."

* * *

Midday arrived with the pealing of distant bells, and the rapping of a mailed fist on the wooden door of Sandor's new, temporary quarters, the only slightly less dank and cramped chambers of a late Frey servant.  _At least this one has a window,_ Sandor mused as he stood from the room's criminally undersized and uncomfortable bed and moved to open the door, passing by a plate of half-eaten mush and a cracked, half-empty flagon of stale beer. The rest of the morning had passed in a blur, somewhere between sleep and awareness; it seemed like mere minutes since the king's men had practically thrown him in here.

It was not Lord Umber who was waiting for him outside, however, but a Stark man clad in fur and steel from head to toe, the direwolf of his house emblazoned on his breastplate, flanked by two guards. He carried a brutish, spiked steel warhammer that reminded Sandor of Robert's, and there was something undeniably familiar about his war-weathered, black-bearded face.

"Have… we met?" He asked in passing as they began their trek down the narrow, dimly lit stone corridors of the Twins.

"Indeed we have, though I don't believe I properly introduced myself when you saved me from the Freys." He smiled, and extended a hand. "Borrick of the Wolfswood, captain of Winterfell's finest soldiers."

After a moment of forced silence, Borrick retracted his hand, donned his greathelm, and continued on their way, still smiling.

"Not one for pleasantries, I suppose. Come, then, it will be starting soon."

The Greatjon of Umber had already begun to speak by the time the small group arrived, his voice booming throughout the courtyard as he read from a long scroll. All of the great northern lords and their riverland allies had packed themselves into the modest square to hear Robb Stark's decree: Manderly and Glover, Hornwood and Locke, Cerwyn, Tully, Tallhart, Vance, Piper, Mormont, Mallister, Blackwood, Bracken, and half a hundred more that Sandor didn't recognize. The air was choked with bolts of cloth, and all of the men holding them would readily kill him, the mad dog of the Lannisters, without qualm or hesitation.  _Seven hells, what have I gotten myself into?_

"…As penance for their vile betrayal and blatant disregard for the sacred and revered Guest Rite," he was saying, "House Frey and its members shall be stripped of all lands and titles, and forever banished from the Crossing. Until a new lord can formally be chosen following the conclusion of the war, Lord Jonos Bracken is hereby granted regency over the Twins and House Frey's former lands. Trials and executions for the traitors responsible for this heinous act will begin at midday tomorrow."

A thunderous cheer went up among the men; Borrick and the two guards joined in eagerly, though Sandor remained quiet as the grave among the fanfare; there was only one thing he was listening for.

"The same shall apply for the Houses of Vypren and Bolton along their members, who collaborated with the Freys in their treasonous, heretical plot, as well as the vassals of House Frey, the Houses of Haigh, Charlton, Erenford, and Nayland. Regency over the lands of House Vypren is hereby granted to Lord Jason Mallister, while that over the lands of House Frey's vassals is also granted to Lord Bracken. While we hold captive the lords and knights of Houses Charlton, Erenford, Vypren, and Nayland, Roose Bolton has escaped us, along with several of his men, as well as Ser Donnel Haigh. They are hereby branded outlaws, with a bounty to be placed for their capture and return, alive, that they may be brought back to face the king's justice. We urge all northern lords present to write their castellans and instruct them to muster their reserves, that an army may be raised to seize the Dreadfort before Lord Bolton can flee there and raise forces of his own; the same goes for the riverlords regarding Ser Donnel Haigh."

There was no cheering this time, but a wave of uncertain murmuring; several lords dismissed men to the rookery, even as Lord Umber continued to speak.

"Now, on to less grim matters. As a reward for his most timely invention, without which I imagine most of us would not still be here, King Robb has granted Lord Jason Mallister the title of Lord Deputy. Lord Jason, step forth."

The Mallisters in the crowd let out a ragged cheer as the soldiers and nobles parted to allow their lord passage. Garbed in the finery of his house, he made quite the sight, a purple cloak billowing from his shoulders and the sun gleaming from his silver steel plates; the white cloth bandage was still wrapped around his head, over a mane of long brown hair.  _A show, all of it,_ Sandor thought, scowling. He had seen enough paegentry for a dozen lifetimes in King's Landing.  _Useless posturing_ _._ Lord Jason took a knee beneath the giant of a man in front of him, gazing upwards as the Greatjon drew the longest, rustiest greatsword that Sandor had ever seen from a sheath on his back, and laid its tip on the other lord's shoulder.

"Jason Mallister, Lord of Seagard, do you hereby swear to aid in the protection and governance of the Kingdom in the North and to defend it and its people with your life, until death or dishonor parts you from your duty?"

"I do."

"Do you swear to rule the kindgom wisely and justly in your liege's stead if he is unable to do so himself?"

"I do."

"Then in the name of the Robb Stark, first of his name, King in the North and the Trident, I grant you his authority, and the title of Lord Deputy. Rise. And I am told that you have something of your own to say."

Sandor's scowl deepened as the crowd burst into applause and cheers.  _They're just too afraid to call him the King's Hand._

"Indeed I do. I have ascended to this position in a time of crisis." Jason began, pacing back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. "Betrayed by our own bannermen, we nearly lost everything, and we did lose many of our own holding on to it. We nearly lost not just our lives, not just our King, not just the war, but each other. The Freys, Boltons, and ultimately the Lannisters did not only mean to wipe out the royal family, they meant to divide us, to cut the head from our new kingdom and watch the body suffer and die. Leaderless, who can say what would have befallen us. But they failed, and our king still lives! Men of the North, men of the Riverlands, are we not still united?"

"Aye!" The courtyard cried.

"You'll have to speak a little louder; I don't think the Freys can hear you from their dungeons!"

_"Aye!"_

"I don't think the Lannisters can hear you from Casterly Rock!"

"AYE!"

"I don't think Joffrey can hear you from his iron chair!"

 _"AYE!"_  The men boomed, slamming the butts of their spears into the cobblestones, their faces red and their voices hoarse. Lord Mallister continued once they had quieted, his face grim.

"Still, though, these recent events have forced us to examine our situation. On all sides our enemies surround us, ever watching, waiting for us to slip, for an opportunity like the one they nearly had last night. From the north, the Ironborn, from the south and west, the Lannisters and their ilk, and now from within our own ranks, traitors. We have sent an envoy to the crannogmen, that we may take Moat Cailin and drive the Ironmen and Boltons from the North, but we as of now we have heard nothing. Until such time as they reply, we must consider the Neck closed to us, and turn our attention back to the enemies that we can face. As such, a council between King Robb and his lords bannermen has decided that in order to avail ourselves of our current predicament, a bolder approach to the war must be taken. Before they can regroup, before they expect us to be able to do the same, we must lash out at our enemies with our full might, doing unto them what they did unto us. We will snatch their very homelands out from under them, and show  _them_  how it feels to lose what they love!"

The king's men cheered until they lost their voices at that, and by then Sandor had nearly lost his patience.  _Finish your bloody speech, pretty man, and tell me whether I'm going to live or die._

"Lord Tytos Blackwood will lead the greater part of our foot and cavalry in an assault on the Westerlands with Casterly Rock as the ultimate goal, while I myself sail our combined navies to Pyke, and smash the Ironborn at anchor. The Lords Piper, Vance, and Bracken will arrange their forces and those of their vassals to form a defensive line running from Pinkmaiden to Saltpans. They will man any castles and holdfasts they can, and even build new wooden encampments if need be, and prevent the Lannisters from sending reinforcements to the Rock at all costs, by any means at their disposal. Lastly, though a sizable garrison will remain here at the Crossing with the King while he recovers, the remainder of our forces will escort Lady Catleyn, Lord Edmure, and Lady Arya east, into the Mountains of the Moon. For too long, Lysa Arryn has sat idle in the seat of her husband, committing men to neither side despite the wishes of her lords bannermen. Her sister and brother will attempt one final time to sway her to cause, and failing in that, will at the very least depart with some of her vassals marching alongside them. If they succeed, though, with the men of the Vale behind us, we would have enough might to challenge King's Landing itself, if Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell prove arrogant enough to meet us on the field of battle. Each of these expeditions will set out at dawn tomorrow; there is no time to delay. We must needs make a stand now, and rise in defense of our kingdom before it is too late."

Once again, the courtyard erupted into a cacophony of murmuring, muffled shouts of approval, and metal boots clacking against the cobblestones. Jason waited patiently this time, allowing the lords and knights to send messengers from the courtyard and talk amongst themselves, before finally raising his mailed hand and continuing.

"Before my men and I rode for the Twins, after we learned of the Freys' treachery, I made a promise to two men, without whom my intervention would not have been possible, and seven hells take me now if I go back on my word. Lyonel, Willem, step forward."

The crowd parted, this time not to admit a great lord in all his finery, but a barrel-chested soldier in a bloodstained surcoat, and a young, pale-faced boy who visibly trembled with anxiety; it took a moment for Sandor to recognize the former as the crossbowman he had fought beside the night before. Both knelt before their liege lord as he drew his sword, laid it on each of their shoulders in turn, and spoke the words.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just…"

 _Bloody hell._  It was all Sandor could muster not to gag; by the time the impromptu ceremony was done, he was ready to take his ears out with a dagger. He glanced to Borrick and the blade at the Stark captain's hip, and was contemplating the benefits of being deaf when his name rang out across the courtyard.

"Sandor Clegane," Lord Mallister called, his tone ominous, "step forward."

Sandor shook off Borrick's grip when the northman tried to escort him, shoving past his guards and trodding sullenly forward through the mass of knights and lords. Hatred and malice burned in the eyes of the men around them- spit landed at his feet more than once, and curses rose up intermittently from among their ranks. In any case, he kept his chin high and his eyes forward until he reached Jason Mallister and looked down on him, meeting the riverlord's cold stare with an even colder one.

"Though most of his lords bannermen, myself included, thought it more prudent to take off your head," he continued, unphased, "King Robb has elected to show you mercy, dog. He has given you a choice: Take the Black and be escorted to the Wall as soon as Moat Cailin is conquered, or swear your sword and shield to Arya Stark, and leave this castle as her protector, to escort her on the expedition to the Vale. You have until nightfall to decide."

* * *

The northern convoy was large, their baggage train long. A hundred hardy Stark and Umber troops took up the vanguard, led by Borrick of the Wolfswood- mounted on a black, armored destrier with his warhammer in hand, Sandor could have sworn that the captain was Robert reborn, had it not been for the direwolves emblazoned on his shield and plates, and the Stark standard-bearer riding alongside him. Edmure Tully rode proud at the head of the main part of the host, with trout banners flying high all around him, and the Blackfish, who had ridden to the Twins from Riverrun during the night, at his side. Catelyn and Arya, along with her new sworn shield, were at the very center, surrounded on all sides by two hundred men from the Riverlands, ranging from Tully spearmen to Mallister Silver Eagles to Bracken cavalry. At least twenty knights rode with them, though nearly half of them were at the far flanks of the host, leading parties of mounted scouts and outriders that would be vital when they entered the Mountains of the Moon, infested as they were with mountain clans emboldened by Lysa Arryn's inaction and the havoc wreaked by the war.

The lofty peaks of the Vale were yet far off, though. For now, the column trekked through the blasted ruins of the Riverlands; the wetland areas east of the Twins had been swelled to the point of bursting by the torrential rains that had inundated the area, turning a cluster of tranquil ponds into a bloated swamp, filled with rotting corpses and the forlorn, half-submerged ruins of wooden trebuchets, rams, and baggage carts, the half-vanished ghosts of the Westerlands armies that had ventured this far north. Much of the eastern road had been submerged in brown and red, and for several hours at a time they lost it completely, and were forced to slog through filthy, corpse-ridden water while their outriders searched for the main path. Lord Edmure tried in vain to convince Lady Catelyn and Arya to wait on land until a drier route was found, but the two would not be swayed, and rode on through the mire, doing their best to ignore the death and despair that surrounded them.

At midday, the convoy came upon the first signs of life that they had encountered since entering the bog, when a group of scouts happened upon Heron Hall. House Erenford's modest stone keep, once located on the shore of a lake, was halfway flooded, with the water rising well up its gates and walls. Ser Erryk Erenford, the castellan, was camped atop the parapets along with the remainder of his men and the castle's smallfolk, having fled the main halls after the lake came rushing in. He surrendered without a fight when Edmure sent a mounted envoy carrying the king's banner, and readily offered to bend the knee once he was informed that he has now the Knight of Heron Hall; his cousin, the previous bearer of that title, had been slain by the Mallisters at the Twins. Once a rider calling for thirty men to aid Ser Erryk and his people had been sent back to the Crossing, though, the host continued on their way, still making due east.

Much to the relief of all, however, they soon found the end of the flooded marsh, emerging onto a vast, flat plain that ran all the way to the Mountains of the Moon. Somewhere in its eastern reaches was the border between the Riverlands and the Vale, though few besides the maesters knew exactly where it was, and even fewer cared to mark or enforce it. During the summer the plain was lush and verdant, a boundless expanse of green, but autumn had turned the long grass yellow, lifeless and brittle, though yet all but untouched by war. Smoke was visible in the distance, a long, twisting grey column that stretched far into the sky, with a faint red glow at its base. Most of the outriders and even Sandor himself dismissed it as a brush fire, but as it was in their path, however far off, Lord Edmure deigned to investigate, and quickened their pace; there were several lesser keeps on the roads ahead, and like as not one could shelter them for the night. As they approached the blaze, passing from wild, untamed grass to neatly organized, fenced fields of wheat, barley, and rye, it became apparent that this was no mere brush fire, though. By the time they reached the source of the blaze, the sun was low on the horizon behind them, the men were growing fatigued, and the fire's purpose was all too clear. A host of Riverlands levies laid before them, encircling a stout stone keep flying the pitchfork of House Haigh. They had burned the crops and town surrounding the castle, and now looked to be preparing for a siege. Lord Edmure soon organized a party to ride out and meet the force's leaders: he himself along with the Blackfish, Catelyn, Arya, Sandor, and an assortment of other knights and captains. Borrick, meanwhile, would lead the rest of the convoy to aid in the encirclement until further notice. The group was met halfway by two knights on horseback, flanked by men-at-arms on foot.

"Hail, friends!" Lord Tully called, raising a gloved hand in greeting. "Who goes there?"

"Ser Addam of House Blanetree."

"And Ser Perym of House Wayn," the knights replied in turn, extending their greetings.

"The ravens from the Twins came in this morning," Ser Addam continued, "about what the Freys and their lot tried to do at your wedding, the bloody traitors, and about Roose Bolton and Donnel Haigh. Now, we couldn't do anything about Bolton, of course, but seeing as both of our keeps were just half a day's march away from the Haighs…"

"We raised our peasants and what few soldiers we had left and came here as quick as we could," Ser Perym interjected, "but it wasn't quick enough. Ser Donnel got in before we arrived, but we have him trapped now. When he first realized what we were doing he tried to lead a sortie against us, nearly broke through our lines, but we pushed him back inside. I tried to lead an envoy to negotiate his surrender an hour later, but the man is mad- he opened fire on us after things went south, took out two of my best men with his longbows and stuck me in the bloody shoulder as I rode away. We set his lands on fire after that, and began setting up for a siege. He won't negotiate, I tell you."

"Leave that to me," said Brynden Tully, smirking.

* * *

The drawbridge before the castle was red with the blood of the two dead Wayn men, who both lied still in the bridge's center, pierced by arrows, along with one of their horses. All the same, Ser Brynden Tully rode out alone, despite the pleadings of Catelyn, Edmure, Arya and Sers Addam and Perym, all of whom insisted that the Haighs would feather him without a second thought; as stubborn as ever, though, the Blackfish could be swayed by no man once he set his mind to something.

"He's going to die," Arya hissed to Sandor from her smaller palfrey, her eyebrows knitted, as they along with everyone else in the host watched her great-uncle trot slowly towards the castle, "they're going to shoot him, aren't they?"

"Might be," Sandor murmured, "if they're fool enough. They kill that man, and your uncle will storm this castle, burn it to the ground, erase House Haigh from history. Not as thoroughly as Tywin Lannister would, mind you, but all the same, they'd be ruined."

"Who goes there?" A voice called from the parapets, drawing their attention.

"You know who I am, Donnel," the Blackfish replied, "and I know you. I knew your grandfather, Lyman, since long before even your father Leslyn was born, let alone you. We fought together against the Ninepenny Kings, then years later against Aerys." Brynden spat on the bridge's bloodstained planks. "He would turn in his grave if he could see how low his children had sunk. You betrayed your liege lord, and abetted a conspiracy with the Lannisters to murder him and his mother, guests under your masters the Freys."

"Lord Tywin has money and power beyond anything you can imagine, old man!" Donnel called back. "And he helps his friends! His host will smash your ragtag band of northmen like so many ants! The Mountain will cut your heart out and ride over your corpse!"

Brynden shrugged, gesturing to the empty plains around them. "I, for one, see no Mountain, and I certainly don't see Tywin Lannister. I see only a coward who betrayed his king."

"He was losing the war!" The knight returned. "He freed the Kingslayer, and broke his vow to marry one of Lord Frey's daughters!"

"And that gives you leave to conspire to murder him at a  _wedding?_ Enough of your excuses. Know this: If you surrender now, we will spare your castle, and return you to the Crossing for a fair trial. Refuse, and we will storm your walls, smash your gates, burn your keep, and hang your traitor's corpse atop the ashes. The choice is yours."

Ser Donnel laughed coldly. "So, I have the choice to either hang here or hang there? I think not, old man. Single combat, I say. You and I. I win, and you break off the siege."

"I win," Brynden finished, "and the castle is ours. Very well, Ser Donnel. I'll be waiting."

* * *

It was over for Donnel Haigh in less than a minute. Dressed in the finest plates that he could muster from the keep's armory and bearing a long, polished steel blade, he certainly looked the part, but he was no match for the Blackfish. Clearly underestimating the older man's speed, he attempted to flank him, but was met step for step and swing for swing at every turn. Brynden went for the joints at his knees and shoulders, making cut after brutal cut. Blood flowed down Donnel's plates from armpit and knee and elbow, and his wild swings quickly slowed as he began to pant and falter. Soon his guard slipped just long enough to allow the Blackfish to send his sword flying from his hands- it landed in the moat with a clatter, bouncing off one of the dozens of half-submerged wooden spikes that filled the deep ditch and slipping beneath the murky water. The subsequent swing landed Brynden's blade in his side; when the Blackfish withdrew it, half of it was red.

"I yield." Ser Donnel gasped, falling to his knees before one of the dead Wayns.

"I don't think so." Ser Brynden replied coldly. He grabbed hold of the knight's helm by the visor and drew back his sword.

Behind him, Sandor heard Catelyn and Edmure breathing sighs of relief; Sandor was turning to remark on their uncle's prowess when Donnel Haigh grabbed one of the arrows buried in the Wayn's corpse, turned it in his hand, and launched himself forward with the last of his strength, burying the steel head in Brynden's hip joint, driving his helm into the man's chest, and sending them both over the edge of the bridge.

Catelyn Stark screamed, the longbowmen on the castle's parapets fired, and all hell broke loose.


	4. The Commander of the Watch

**THE COMMANDER OF THE WATCH**

"Something has gone wrong," said Lord Tywin. The midnight embers burned low behind him, casting a pale orange glow across his hard, lined face and golden whiskers. "We should have heard the stories by now, the countryside from Sunspear to Karhold should have heard. Robb Stark should be dead, his head mounted on a pike before the Crossing and his army crushed. His mother and uncle should be our prisoners, tools with which to bring the Eyrie and Riverrun to heel. Instead, we have heard nothing. My informants in the riverlands have gone silent. Not a rumor, not a messenger, not a single, solitary raven.  _Why?_ "

Ser Addam Marbrand frowned, blinking through bleary eyes. Ser Balon Swann, who now stood guard outside the door, had roused him from his bedchamber in the Dragon Gate barracks not half an hour before, and dragged him halfway across the city to the Red Keep. King's Landing was silent for the most part; but for the whorehouses reeking of incense and the gambling dens reeking of drink, nearly all had settled in for the night, but not Lord Tywin. While the smallfolk and the nobles and even his knights and retainers slept, Tywin Lannister toiled away in his study, writing letters and moving troops and ruling the realm while the boy king on the throne did his best to make the people despise him.

"I…"  _do not know_ , Ser Addam was about to say. One look at Tywin's face, though, and he thought better of it. "Perhaps the Freys turned coward. Didn't have the stomach to do it, or couldn't find the right opportunity." For several weeks, Addam and a select few others- who, he did not know- had been privy to Tywin Lannister's scheme to have Robb Stark assassinated at the Twins. While the idea of murdering unarmed men- guests under the Rite of the Seven at a wedding, no less- did not sit well with him, he knew that it had to be done to end the war;  _kill a dozen men at dinner to save thousands on the battlefield,_  as Tywin had put it.

"Walder Frey is certainly possessed of a great deal of low cunning and depravity, but he is no coward, and no man's fool." The lord countered in tones that brokered no argument. "He knows that the North cannot win the war, that by joining us he places himself firmly on the winning side, and ensures the lasting prosperity of his house. Roose Bolton is another creature entirely, and far more dangerous, but his motives are more or less the same. What's more, why would he pass by an opportunity to seize control of the North from the Starks? Their houses have been at each other's throats for hundreds if not thousands of years, and Roose is not a man to forgive and forget."

Tywin sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Addam had been by his side during half a hundred candlelight vigils, but tonight was different. Tension laced the cool midnight air, a palpable aura of uncertainty. Addam had seen the lord remain stone-faced and emotionless in the most maddening of circumstances, but tonight, the lord could not hide the raw anger in his eyes. Both men knew what the silence from the riverlands meant. The masterstroke of Tywin's plan to win the war off the battlefield had likely failed, months of planning rendered null by a fault that Tywin as of now had no way of understanding. It was this powerlessness in the face of an unknown flaw that tinged Tywin's every word with a bitter and anxious air, as he unfurled a map of the Crownlands.

"You will leave the city within the hour," he intoned, tracing out a northward route on the parchment, "along with twenty of your best men. A picket of my swiftest cavalry will meet you at Rosby; from there, you will ride for Harrenhal, and glean whatever information you can regarding what in seven hells happened at the Twins. Failing there, proceed further into the Riverlands until you have something to report. I summoned Gregor Clegane back to the capital two days ago, but the garrison he left there has stopped responding to our ravens- prepare yourselves for the worst. Under no circumstances, though, are you to discuss the details of or reasons behind this expedition with anyone other than me. Not your men, not mine, not Joffrey or Cersei. I don't care if the High Septon asks you-  _no one._ "

Marbrand nodded dutifully in assent, his head still swimming as he left the room and dispatched runners ahead of him to the barracks and gates. The commander had hardly accrued a decent night's worth of sleep over the course of the past week, his days consumed by security preparations for Joffrey's nuptials; this night's developments had hardly been ideal. Pausing at a window to rub the sleep from his eyes with a leather-clad hand, he glanced up to find the Imp standing before him, a wry grin playing across his scarred, moonlit face.

"Lovely evening for a moonlight stroll, isn't it, Ser Addam?"

"Aye," Addam replied evenly, raising an eyebrow.  _How in seven hells…_

"I know you've been quite the busy man recently, especially with the royal wedding just a few days away. You're up planning for that, I'd wager."

Tyrion Lannister read the knight's face like a book, his grin growing wider at Marbrand's visible flinch.

"Or perhaps not. Fancy meeting you here, outside my father's quarters. But you seemed to be going somewhere in a bit of a hurry, your lack of sleep notwithstanding, and I certainly don't want to slow you down. You'll probably be needing to return to your barracks with some haste, what with all this talk around the Keep of watchmen being roused from their beds, and horses being fetched from the stables. Sounds like you have quite the situation on your hands."

Addam was practically fuming by the time Tyrion fell silent again- it took all the restraint he could muster to maintain his composure.  _He knows. It's barely been an hour since Tywin summoned me, and he knows. Gods damn him._

"There's no need to worry, my lord. Just a training exercise. Have to keep the men on their toes, after all."

"Of course."

The Imp watched the commander as he continued briskly down the corridor and disappeared around the corner, his mismatched eyes shining in the darkness.

* * *

Half an hour later, in a courtyard outside the Red Keep's stables, the commander had mustered his twenty watchmen, four veteran lieutenants and their most experienced soldiers. Contrary to the general makeup of the Gold Cloaks, a great deal of noble houses were represented among the grizzled band; third and fourth sons of minor Crownland lords, well-trained and well-educated, often found that they could rise high in the ranks of the City Watch- higher than they could at the Wall or the Citadel. The most senior member of the group of twenty, Lymar Pyle, the captain of the King's Gate, had being serving since well before Robert's Rebellion. His grizzled salt-and-pepper beard and several missing teeth, knocked out in brawls and battles, testified to his years. Still spry and wiry, though, he was the first to call out to Addam when he entered the yard.

"What the bloody hell is going on, commander? It's past the hour of the wolf!"

"Aye!" echoed Kasper Chelsted, shouldering his mace, scowling through his thick black stubble. "I was in the middle of fuckin' the best blonde when your runner came to fetch me, nice buxom tits and all, and down below…"

"That's enough!" Addam interrupted amidst peals of laughter, chuckling despite himself as he gestured to Ewell Brax, his squire, to bring up his courser. Barely sixteen and full of the plucky self-confidence that comes with that age, Ewell nodded, grinning through his thin, scruffy beard as he jogged off to the stables.

"Alright, you sons of whores, listen up!" He barked, turning back the men. "We are taking a nice, relaxing midnight ride to Harrenhal, to have a little chat with the Mountain's men. No further questions will be asked. Do you understand?"

Several men mumbled weakly in response; Addam cocked an eyebrow.

"I said,  _do you understand?!"_

The crowd bellowed their assent, save for one man at the back, who leaned against the red wall of the Keep. His iron helm hid most of his face, save for a smug grin and dark, greasy locks that spilled out the back. Narrowing his eyes, the commander took a stride toward him.  _Here we go again._ Addam had dealt with enough arrogant fools with chips on their shoulders since becoming commander to know how to handle them.

"Did you not hear me, watchman?"

"Aye, I reckon I heard you."

"So,  _watchman,_ do you understand?"

The man's smirk widened.

"I suppose I do. Just didn't want to strain my poor voice. I'm a top notch singer, you know. The ladies can't get enough of it."

_You're going to regret that, you cocky little shit._

"What's your name, watchman?"

"Borwick Rambton."

"Well, Borwick, why don't you get your weapon, find a horse, and  _fall in line,_ before I lose my patience and rip that cloak off your shoulders for insubordination. Is that a bit more clear?"

Rambton shoved himself off the wall, and joined the rest of the watchmen with a heavy sigh.

"Well,  _Ser,_ I suppose it is."

By the end of the hour, the band of men was galloping out the Iron Gate, riding hard along the coast. As farms turned to countryside, and fishing huts turned to bare beaches, Addam called back to the group.

"Well, lads, since our dear friend Borwick has such a knack for singing, I say he should serenade us all the way to Rosby. What say you?"

The men's laughter and shouts echoed along the quiet coastline; Addam turned to watch Borwick, whose perpetual grin had quickly died.

"The Bear and the Maiden Fair!" cried Kasper Chelsted.

"Six Maidens in a Pool!" Merion Waters countered, cupping his hands about his mouth.

"The Dornishman's Wife!"

"Milady's Supper!"

"Brave Danny Flint!"

"The Lusty Lad!"

"Which one?" Rambton grunted when the men had finally quieted down.

"Oh, don't worry," Addam replied through a smirk of his own, "you'll have more than enough time to get through them all. Might as well get started."

Though they were obscured by his helm, Addam could feel the loathing emanating from the watchman's eyes. He grinned all the same though, content in his victory as Borwick began.

"A bear there was, a bear, a bear, all black and brown and covered in hair…"

* * *

The moon hung low in the sky when the company of just over forty riders came within sight of the looming black towers of Harrenhal some days later, their twisted, warped stone features forming ominous silhouettes against the star-strewn sky. The torches that normally glowed at the two manned towers' peaks had been extinguished, and Addam's chest filled with dread at the sight.  _By the gods, what if it's really happened? What if they've taken it?_ He held up a mailed fist, and the company's horses skidded to a stop at a bend in the road, panting and drooling after hours of riding.  _Perhaps I drove them too hard,_ he mused, glancing at the bronze trappings of Ashstrider, his own red courser, slick with sweat. They'd made nearly record time from the capital, despite having to stop at Rosby to wait for the Lannister cavalry. Moving forward at a canter, they edged nearer and nearer to the castle's towering curtain walls, stopping again a few hundred yards away. The air was choked with an oppressive, unnatural silence, too eerie for even the cursed fortress before them.

"This isn't right," muttered Dormund Swyft, the ranking officer of the Lannister cavalry, his blonde brows furrowed. "Gregor's men are never this quiet, even in the dead of night. My cousin and his company stayed here for a night on his way back to the capital, said they're always up drinking and raping and torturing until past dawn. They're a sick lot, but not a quiet one."

Addam nodded, grimacing as he turned his horse to face the men.

"Lymar, Dormund, with me. The rest of you, hold position, and keep your guard up. We don't know who is in that castle, but they may not be friendly anymore."

Dormund quickly ordered several riders to scout the surrounding woods, then joined the two Gold Cloaks as they trotted cautiously forward, hands at their swordbelts, heads turning back and forth and back again, searching fruitlessly for any sign of a trap or ambush. When they were within a stone's throw of the towering wood and metal gates, a trio of faint silhouettes appeared on the ramparts, their allegiance indiscernible.

"Hail friends!" The commander shouted, squinting as he struggled to make out the distant symbols on their surcoats in the pale glow of the moon.

"Who would pass the gates of Harrenhal?" a rough voice called down.

The commander hesitated for a moment, torn.  _They might kill me no matter what I say._ He steeled himself, though, and called out in reply.

"Ser Addam Marbrand, commander of the City Watch of King's Landing, loyal servant of the true king… Joffrey Baratheon."

The figures on the wall fell silent for a moment, and Addam continued haltingly.

"Where is Polliver? We must needs speak with him at once."

"The castellan? He's here, with us," the silhouette responded, its tone suddenly almost mocking. "Hold just a moment, and we'll send him down to you."

A faint  _whoosh_ broke the silent night air, and with a sickening splatter of gore, Polliver's head landed in the dirt, severed at his neck. One eye was gouged out, and his tongue had pulled from his open mouth, but the man's trimmed beard and balding head were unmistakable even when mutilated and bloodstained.

_Oh, fuck._

The first volley of arrows found their marks with lethal accuracy. One struck Dormund squarely in the back as he turned to flee, punching with ease through the light leather and thin mail worn by scouts for speed. Another took Lymar's rearing horse in the neck, sending it toppling to the ground and taking the older watchman with it. A third hit Ashstrider in the side, but shattered on the horse's armor; pivoting wildly, Addam rode furiously for the rest of the company, crying out in pain as well-placed shaft pierced his thigh from behind. He could hear the gates creak open behind him, the clanking of mail and plate, the rattling of swords and spears; chancing a glance backward, he caught a glimpse of what must have been thirty- no, fifty Northern soldiers, pouring out onto the road, torches in hand. Lymar, struggling to his feet from beneath his dying palfry, charged them with a ragged shout, sword raised high. The veteran fighter made an account of himself, but was cut down in moments all the same.  _They're all on foot!_ Addam realized exuberantly, laughing to himself as he galloped out of the range of their bows and toward the rest of his men.  _They have no horses! We can still win this yet, draw them out and flank them…_

"TO ME, TO ME!" He bellowed as he came within sight of the patch of road where the company was waiting, drawing his sword. "FORM UP, AND FOLLOW…"

He was interrupted by the thundering blast of a warhorn, and an air-splitting battle cry. Before half of the men even realized what was happening, two masses of northern cavalry burst from the woods, one on either side of the road.  _So that's what happened to Dormund's scouts._ A volley of quarrels from mounted crossbowmen cut down nearly a dozen men where they stood, and a third of those who remained were butchered within seconds of the initial impact, as the axes and swords of the northern riders were put to use with deadly effect. Finding himself at the middle of the frenzied melee, Addam lowered his sword toward the open road behind them, the only escape in sight.

"RETREAT!" He cried desperately, grimacing as Ashstrider reared, kicking wildly into the now torchlit air. "FALL BACK, MAKE FOR THE CAPITAL!"

He and a mob of other panicked soldiers rode madly for the opening. A few dozen yards ahead, though, a lone northman stood with a torch in the middle of the road, casting it forward onto a band of dark, slick ground. Addam watched in horror as a wall of fire rose up from the dirt, Ashstrider skidding to a halt mere yards from the flames. One Gold Cloak wasn't as lucky; his horse lost its footing and careened forward through the fire, setting them both ablaze. Addam could do nothing but stare in shock at their writhing bodies, their agonized screams ringing in his ears. They were trapped. He had lost. The battle faded out of his senses, the sounds and sights all melding into one pained blur. Sweat and tears burned in his bloodshot eyes, the bitter sting of defeat.  _Mother forgive me._

"COMMANDER!"

A slap across the face from Kasper Chelsted quickly brought him back to the ugly reality of the situation.

"If we're going to make it out of this, and by the gods, I intend to, we need to move,  _now!"_ He paused to swat aside a charging northman, his mace flashing grey and then red as it turned the man's broad, whiskered jaw into pulp and sent him toppling from his horse. "Their foot soldiers are closing from behind, but there's still time to make a gap!"

Addam nodded, his eyes wide with renewed resolve, that special brand of fear-driven courage. He let out a rallying cry, surging forward along with Kasper and what few other men they could draw to their side, Lannister and Gold Cloak alike. The northern cavalry had moved quickly enough to deny them a true opening, but the group pressed hard for the weakest spot of the circle they could find, an area only a few horses deep, and away from the bloody heart of the clash.

The commander's sword sunk deep into the shoulder of the first northman he came across, too slow to raise his iron-embossed buckler. Blood spattered across his face as he moved on to the next man, his own troops alongside him. To his right, Borwick fought surprisingly well, as grudging as Addam was to admit it, dodging the sloppy blows of a massive northerner before he slit the man's throat with the whirl of a dirk. At his left, Gram the Butcher, a massive captain out of Flea Bottom infamous for an incident involving too much wine and pair of horse thieves, had already cleaved a man's skull in two with his falchion, while Merion Waters, his sword knocked aside, resorted in his desperation to grabbing a man by his collar and shattering his nose with a mailed fist. The Butcher was the first to break through, swatting his brained opponent aside as a bear would a mouse, and riding toward the woods with a yell of triumph. Soon the others rushed through the hole to join him, keen on pressing forward before their escape was cut off.

Gram's ride was cut short, though, by a well-placed quarrel, which transfixed his burly neck, and reduced his yell to a choked gurgle. His gold cloak caught in his horse's reins as he fell, his still writhing body dragged through the grass as the courser bolted into the trees, leaving a trail of blood in its wake.

"DON'T LET THEM ESCAPE!" A Riverland knight bellowed, his lobstered steel fist extended toward them. More quarrels followed, along with a wave of Northern cavalry, broken off from the main battle, the knight in their midst. The Northern foot had closed on their other side, and made short work of the laggards at the back of the group. Merion Waters was sent tumbling from his horse by a well-aimed spear thrust, then run through as he struggled to stand. Drawing his horse to the side at the last moment, Kasper Chelsted narrowly avoided the same fate. The paltry few men who had broken free at his back, Addam put heel to Ashstrider and plunged into the forest, mindless of the northmen and even his allies, his sole aim to get as far away from Harrenhal as his exhausted horse could carry him.  _Fuck King's Landing, fuck Tywin. I'd never go back if it meant I don't have to die like this, in this godforsaken place._ Treasonous, selfish thoughts filled his mind, but he hardly cared. Addam Marbrand merely wanted to live.

The northerners seemed to be vehemently opposed to this concept, however. Quarrels whizzed past him left and right, slamming into tree trunks with dull  _thud_ s. Several found their mark in limbs and backs, Ewell Brax's arm among them; his screams of pain echoed through the trees, but the squire rode on all the same, his eyes wild with fear. Already exhausted by their long night's ride, the group's horses gradually began to lose their momentum, lagging dangerously close to the heavy hoofbeats of the northern destriers. Addam could soon hear every word of the knight's barked orders, even glimpse a mounted northman out of the corner of his vision, his hooked bill extended toward a Lannister man's pauldron. He had grasped his sword, ready to fight to the last, when Kasper grunted something barely intelligible beside him.

"Damn it all, Addam. I thought we had a chance."

"We can still make it through this." The words were hollow, insincere, but they came unbidden to him all the same.

"You still might, if I can help it. Tell the whores not to weep too much for me, brother."

A wry smile on his face, the watchman swung about his horse, bloodied mace at the ready, and charged toward the gaining cavalry. Addam stretched out his arm in a last effort to stop him, but the watchman had made his choice.

"FOR KING'S LANDING! FOR DAGGERHOLD!"

Closing rapidly with the enemy, Kasper brought his mace down with brutal force, smashing in the skull of the Riverland knight's horse. As man and beast alike tumbled into the underbrush, he swung forward his other arm and bashed his iron buckler into a northman's face with a reverberating crack. Addam was forced to look forward again before he could see any more, though. The sounds of clashing metal and whinnying horses faded slowly into the distance, as the group's other assailants broke off their pursuit to deal with Chelsted.  _Another good man dead because of me._ The commander had lost soldiers before, dozens over the course of the war. But those deaths had always meant something, had always contributed to a higher purpose- not like this. There was no honor to be found here, no comforting lie about a noble cause. There was only his own failure, and he hated it.

The time for reflection quickly passed, though, as the paltry band of remaining survivors came upon a thicket of gnarled tree trunks and dense underbrush, interspersed by shallow pools of dark water.

"We should ditch the horses here," rasped Borwick, who was still alive, to Addam's chagrin, though his voice hadn't yet recovered. "That grove is too thick for them anyway. We can lose those bloody northerners in there, spend the rest of the night if we need to."

Addam nodded grudgingly, his spirit too sapped to ask Rambton who had made him commander. They soon made their way to the center of the thicket, huddling amid the thick shrubs and twisted branches. Of the forty-odd men that had set out from Rosby, only six remained. Two Lannister riders helped Borwick keep watch, while Addam bound and cleaned Ewell's wounded arm along with Jon Gaunt, the young captain of the Gate of the Gods.

"The bolt missed most of your muscle and bone," Jon reassured the boy; he set his helm aside and attempted a weak smile, pushing strands of sweat-soaked black hair from his eyes with a trembling hand. The captain did his best to distract Ewell while Addam stemmed the bleeding and tore a piece of cloth from his cloak. "You'll have a good story to tell for this battle scar. Not like me." He gestured to two thin ridges of white flesh that ran from his brow to his cheek. "All the men think I got it a brawl, but it was just a damn cat." Gaunt chuckled despite himself. "I was about your age. This big, nasty tom kept killing our cook's chickens and stealing food from the larder, so I resolved that I was going to make my father proud and deal with the beast myself. It was holed up behind a loose stone in the cellar, and, being the dumb little shit that I was, I reached down to grab it by the tail and pull it out."

"And it gave you that?" The squire finished.

"Aye, it gave me this. My mother was terrified that I'd catch fever, but my brothers and sisters couldn't stop laughing for a week- they've never let me live it down. Cat Scratch Jon, they called me."

Addam smiled for the first time in what seemed like ages as he finished tying off the tourniquet.

"I'd never heard that one. Cat Scratch Jon, eh? I like it- I'm sure the boys at your gate will too."

Gaunt's wide, pale eyes glowed sheepishly. He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by one of the Lannister men standing sentry.

"Torches in the distance."

Everyone not already standing was soon on their feet, their eyes on the distant glow of half a dozen flickering lights, all in the direction they had fled from.

"They're getting closer." Ewell grabbed the hilt of the rondel dagger at his side.

"Aye." Addam grimaced. "Fall farther back into the grove, stay low and stay quiet. Follow my lead."

Dawn had begun to tinge the sky purple and red and purple and fill the forest with the chirrups of birds as the survivors weaved slowly through bushes and vines toward the back of the thicket.

"We'll make a break for the east if they dismount. Follow the sunrise, and we should run across a friendly holdfast or two within the hour."

"On foot?" One of the Lannisters asked incredulously. "You're mad. They'll ride us down before we can run a hundred yards."

"Madness," the commander retorted, "would be going back toward those torches, fetching six already exhausted horses, and trying to lead them all the way around this bloody thicket without being caught. So unless you'd like to volunteer, which I'd be very open to, shut it. We move if they dismount."

Sure enough, the  _thuds_  of steel boots hitting soil could soon be heard faintly over the oblivious chatter of the birds.  _Shit._

Addam turned, ready to make for the treeline, only to lock eyes with a crouching Northern soldier barely five yards behind them.

"NOW!" The man roared, his sword drawn.

Ten other men burst from the bushes around the group in unison, weapons at the ready.

"TO ARMS!" Addam barely had the time to loose one ragged cry before the northerners were upon them. He swiped aside a charging spearman's blow and swiftly gutted the man, kicking him aside as the grove descended into a frenzied melee. A burly axman severed one Lannister's sword arm, then charged towards Ewell, only to be tackled mid-swing by Jon, sending them both into a murky pool of water. Borwick and one of the Lannisters, fighting back to back, held their own surprisingly well against a trio of Stark soldiers, and for a brief moment, as he swung his sword into a disarmed northman's neck, Addam's heart lifted.  _Gods be good, might we make it out of this yet?_

The gods answered with resounding denial. The riverland knight, his plates dented and dotted with clumps of grass and dirt, strode calmly through the reeds and briars toward the increasingly bloody clash, two Tully men at his back. Unslinging a bastard sword, he waded towards Jon Gaunt, who was still wrestling in the water with the axman, and severed the captain's spine with one swift blow, staining his gold cloak red. Ewell cried out in anger, and managed to drive his rondel into a Tully's leg before he was brained by the other's sword hilt, and run through by a northman's spear. The second Lannister and a Stark man died on each other's blades, while Borwick was backed into a maze of gnarled trunks by three advancing foes.

Pure rage coursed through Addam's veins as the others advanced slowly in his direction; though his sword arm throbbed in agonized exhaustion, he raised it all the same, daring them to face him. A Stark and Tully surged forward fist; drops of blood flew from the commander's sword as he met them blow for blow. He took full advantage of the profusely bleeding dagger wound Ewell had left, kicking the man savagely in the thigh and sending him crumpling to the floor with a howl. He dealt with the Stark in short order after that, and once he had finished off the grounded Tully, Addam was left standing face-to-face with the knight.

"Is that Addam fucking Marbrand?" The man whistled. "Gods be good, won't you make a fine prize. I imagine the Young Wolf will be quite pleased when I march back to the Twins with your head on a pike."

The commander flinched, unable to hide his surprise.

"Oh, you didn't know, did you? He's alive. Tywin's little plot failed, the Crossing is ours, and we will have our vengeance."

"You'll still lose." Addam growled. "King's Landing will never fall. Casterly Rock will never fall."

"That's where you're wrong." The knight chuckled, the sound echoing through his plumed metal greathelm. "But I've had my fair share of bloodshed for the night, and you're worth quite a pretty penny. Throw down your blade, why don't you, and we might let you live, see how you like the Harrenhal dungeons."

Addam spat on the ground before him, his blood-streaked lips twisted in a sneer.

"That's what I say to your dungeons."

"Have it your way, then." He raised his sword, leveling its tip with the commander. "You'll die like the rest of your men."

_Thwack._

Just as he began to advance, the knight stumbled suddenly backward, a dirk protruding from his neck. A fountain of blood gushed from the mail and leather as he fell into the water with a resounding splash; he choked and gurgled his last before finally falling still beside Jon's body.

Before Addam could turn, a metal hilt took him in the back of the head with a dull  _crack._ He reeled, his sword falling from his hands as the bloodsoaked ground rushed up to meet him. Sounds and images faded in and out, blurring and shifting. A pair of rough hands grabbed him by the arm and rolled him onto his back, as a familiar voice mumbled something indistinct above him. After a moment, the face gazing down on him came back into focus with blinding clarity, and Addam couldn't help but chuckle.

"Borwick Rambton my ass. Bronn. I should've fucking known."

The sellsword grinned, just as widely as he had in the courtyard.

"Aye, you should've. You must've seen me with Tyrion a hundred times. Frankly, I'm quite shocked that I didn't manage to give myself up- I played things a bit fast and loose. I guess all it takes is one of these, though," he gestured to the helm under his arm, "and you're damn near invisible."

Addam sighed. "To a fool like me, perhaps. So, you going to kill me, sellsword? Is this what I get for making you sing all night?"

Bronn cocked an eyebrow, shaking his head as he waded over to the knight's corpse and plucked out his dirk.

"Oh come on, Marbrand, I'm not  _that_ petty. This whole leaving you for dead business, it's nothing personal. Wasn't even the original plan, either. Tyrion just wanted to know what in seven hells was going on that had Lord Tywin so riled up. It's just that, seeing as only the two of us know what happened here, it seems to me that it's in my employer's best interest to have exclusive knowledge of this little debacle."

Striding nonchalantly back, Bronn plunged the slender blade into Addam's leg and drew it out again, wiping it on his cloak as the commander grunted in pain.

" _That_ was for making me sing all night."

Voices could be heard in the distance, as more torches made their way to the thicket.

"Well, that's my cue." The mercenary tore off his gold cloak and tossed his helm to the side before bending over in a mock bow. "It's been a pleasure, Ser Addam. I do hope those Harrenhal dungeons are as cozy as they say they are."

His damningly smug grin still plastered across his face, Bronn leaned down and brought the hilt of his dirk down hard into Addam's forehead. Blinding pain flashed through his skull for a brief moment, then darkness overtook him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed my first minor character chapter! Did you guess Borwick's identity? Let me know your thoughts and feedback in the comments below, it's always helpful!


	5. Sandor II

**SANDOR**

Ser Addam Blanetree was the first onto the walls. Hs leaf-embossed shield and armor glowed amber in the light of a full harvest moon as he leapt from the siege tower's gangplank, driving the head of his mace into a Haigh bowman's chest with a sickening crack; moments later, Sandor was at his side, his gleaming new broadsword in hand, with the other twenty Riverlands soldiers in the tower rushing out behind him, their cries of battle ringing out in the cold autumn air. The Haigh troops on the wall defended their keep fiercely and well, and as more and more of them rushed to join the fight, and the remaining three siege towers spilled their men onto the battlements, the fray soon descended into butchery and mayhem.

Men on both sides flung their enemies from the walls, and on the walls the stones became so slick with blood that some slipped and fell all the same. Steel rang throughout the castle as the fighting spread like an autumn brush fire across the keep, onto sets of stairs and high merlons, from the courtyard below them to the gangplanks of the siege towers themselves. Sandor and Ser Addam fought side-by-side at first, two trained killers cutting a swathe of death through a horde of common soldiers. Addam moved with speed and grace that surprised even Sandor, laying about with his mace like it was a part of his arm as the plume of auburn feathers sprouting from the back of his helm fluttered in the cold midnight wind. He lost his shield early on when he buried its pointed edge in the head of a Haigh retainer whose arm Sandor had already severed, sending man and shield plummeting into the courtyard below; from then on he used his mailed fist and steel vambrace in its stead.

At his side, Sandor, yet relatively unfamiliar with the new blade that he had bought from a merchant camp follower with a portion of Arya Stark's ransom, opted for a more direct approach, making long, arcing swings that cut down near everything in his path; any lucky Haigh who dodged his blows was either forced off the wall or set upon by other allied troops. Both men were soon soaked in blood from blade to helm as they fought their way to the gatehouse, the most heavily-defended section of the wall, to raise the inner iron portcullis and make way for the main party under Lord Edmure, who had brought a ram to break through the outer wooden gates. Sandor heard it even over the sound of the battle around him, a steady, distant thudding, accompanied by the muffled, rhythmic cry of  _HEAVE! HEAVE! HEAVE!_

Together, they soon reached the line of Haighs guarding the gatehouse, a mass of allied troops behind them, only to be repulsed by a wall of steel and spears; these men were not the upjumped peasants they had been fighting through, but battle-hardened household retainers, the last line of defense of any sizable keep. Behind the wall of spearmen was a rank of crossbows, which, at the signal of the garrison's commander, a kettle-helmed brute as tall as Sandor himself, loosed a devastating volley of quarrels before Ser Addam could call for the men to take cover.

"Form ranks!" The knight cried over the sound of dying men. "Archers, crossbowmen, return fire! Swords and spears, forward!"

"Bloody hell," Sandor growled, glancing to Ser Addam as they both ducked behind a merlon, "I haven't seen a fight like this since Pyke."

"Aye," Blanetree grunted, breaking the shaft from a quarrel embedded in his side, "those buggers are dug in there just as deep as the Greyjoys were. Though I'd kill for some bloody trebuchets right about now."

Sandor couldn't help but grin at that, shaking his head. Before he could reply, Ser Chester Hawick, a young knight from the convoy and the commander of the other siege tower that had landed on their side of the gates, ducked in alongside them, panting; he and his men had joined them and theirs some time ago. The white seagulls on his shield had long since turned red, and his bloody sword arm trembled violently, nearly dropping his blade. His youthful face was twisted in an expression of shock, his blue eyes wide and his pale blonde hair stained crimson.  _This boy never saw Pyke,_ Sandor knew.  _He's never seen anything like this._ Still, though, Hawick remained composed as he turned to face them.

"We need to break through those spearmen," he said, his eyes shifting back and forth between the battle raging next to him and the two men before him, "join up with Ser Perym, the Red Knight, and their men on the other side if we can. The outer gates are nearly broken, they  _need_ us to raise the portcullis."

"Aye," Sandor replied, "but their line is bloody tough. Even we couldn't crack it. Slap some skulls on their surcoats and they could have been the fucking Golden Company, for all I knew. Any suggestions?"

Ser Addam shrugged. "Charge?"

"Sounds fine to me," Sandor said, turning his broadsword in hand as he leaned out from behind the merlon. A Haigh quarrel slammed into his dog-head helm before he could react, tearing off a metal ear; the spearmen had beaten back their troops' initial charge, and now the crossbows were loosing another volley.  _We need to go now, before the men break,_ he realized; one glance told him that the other knights saw it too. He nodded, and all three men tore out from behind the merlon, running straight for the line of spears.

"All archers and crossbows, fire!" Ser Chester cried.

"To me!" Ser Addam called, raising his mace. "All men, to me!"

"CHARGE!" Sandor bellowed, rushing forward, his broadsword ready. For a moment, he feared that they would be thrown back a second time, but at the last moment the flurry of arrows and quarrels from their own men broke upon the Haighs, bringing down several men and knocking back the rest; that was all that they needed. Sandor's first massive stroke cleaved a wounded spearman nearly in two from the shoulder, and the following kick sent him stumbling back through his equally dazed comrades, making the first hole in the line. Ser Addam and Ser Chester made a second when they took apart two dying men and an injured one with mace and sword; after that, the rest of their troops poured through, and once more, everything turned to chaos. The Haigh crossbowmen fired one final volley before producing dirks and short swords and joining the fray with vigor, while the tall, kettle-helmed commander drew a long, ugly falchion and charged headlong into the heart of the battle, wielding the thick blade like a butcher would a meat cleaver. Below them, the ramming party was finishing their work; the wooden gates splintered with a resounding  _crack;_ now, all that was left was for the troops on the wall to raise the portcullis using the two massive chain winches, and the castle would be theirs.

Ser Chester soon had men turning the first winch, though Sandor could only hope that Ser Perym and the Red Knight, Ser Damion Bracken, would soon break through to the second one on the opposite end of the gatehouse. He was preparing to lead a group of men to take the Haigh defenders on that end from behind when a burly, steel-plated arm wrapped around his neck and dragged him off-balance, sending him stumbling towards an unforgiving stone floor. When he rolled over to look at his attacker, fumbling to bring his heavy sword to bear, the kettle-helmed commander slammed a steel boot into his gut and left it there, knocking the breath from him. The man's face was obscured by a long mail coif, but he let out a deep chuckle, the mail rattling as he shook his head and drove his foot down harder. A rib bent, and then snapped, and Sandor wheezed in pain, dropping his sword.

"Where's your master now, dog?" He said mockingly, raising his bloody falchion and swinging it in a savage downward arc. Before the blade could connect, though, Ser Addam Blanetree tackled the man from the side, and the two tumbled down a steep flight of stone steps and into the courtyard in a jumble of blood and steel. Sandor forced himself to his feet, grabbed his sword, and followed them down, his ribs aching with every step. Not a moment after he had entered the courtyard proper, though, he was accosted by two Haigh defenders and an armored retainer emerging from a side hall. As they moved to surround him, he could see the commander struggling to his feet out at the edge of helm, while Blanetree still lied motionless on the ground, perhaps unconscious and perhaps worse. Swearing viciously, he raised his sword and charged the first defender to make a move towards him, parrying his swing easily and gutting him with a single, well-placed cut. Using the momentum from his previous attack, he spun and brought his sword to bear against the second man, swatting his sword aside and braining him with one massive slash. The armored retainer had darted behind him, and thrust his spear at Sandor's neck; he caught the haft under his shoulder and wrenched it free, taking up the spear in his right hand and wielding his broadsword with his left. Panicking, the man made to grab for one of his fallen allies' blades, but was a beat too slow; Sandor whirled, driving the spear's head into the man's helm and driving his broadsword clean through his stomach.

Across the courtyard, Ser Chester had followed the two down as well, and was currently in the midst of a pitched duel with the commander, over Ser Addam's now faintly stirring body. As he dropped the spear moved to aid the young knight, the commander landed a brutal slash on Hawick's sword arm with his falchion; from twenty feet away, Sandor could hear the bone snap. Yet another string of profanities flying from his mouth, he broke into a run, but his rib slowed him, feeling for all the world like a dagger driven into his side every time he took a step. He watched helplessly as the commander's next slash broke Ser Chester Hawick's neck and opened his throat, as the young man stumbled back and landed hard in the dirt and dust, blood spilling over the seagulls on his breastplate, as the commander wrenched a dirk Hawick had attempted to pierce his coif with from the chainmail and took it in hand, moving towards Ser Addam. He stopped in his tracks, though, when he saw Sandor.

"You come to get another beating, dog?" He snarled, turning towards him and bringing both falchion and dirk to bear. "Or just to see me kill your masters?"

"I came to shove that cleaver through your heart," Sandor said flatly, lowering his broadsword and charging; the commander met his first slash with both of his blades, and the game had begun. Each man was near equally matched to the other in terms of height, speed, and size, with neither seeming to hold the advantage: what Sandor dealt with broadsword, the commander returned with falchion and dirk. By the time Addam Blanetree had risen shakily to his knees, Sandor was sporting a litany of fresh bruises and dented plates from the thick, heavy blade, and was bleeding heavily under his left shoulder, where his foe had sliced at the joint in his armor with the dirk, while the commander himself was limping on a bleeding knee, and the arm holding his dirk was limp at his side on account of a grievous cut at his elbow. As they prepared to launch into another deadly dance, the iron portcullis at their right finally lifted with a metallic groan, and Lord Edmure's party charged through with a cry of triumph, cutting down the paltry group of Haigh soldiers still left to defend the courtyard in short order. With the screams of his retainers in his ears, and defeat hanging over him, the commander flinched, turning ever so slightly toward the gate, and the cries of his men- it was all that Sandor could have asked for. He brought back his blade and leaned into a deadly swing that shattered the man's wounded knee, nearly severing it. Throwing aside the broadsword as his opponent screamed in pain, Sandor grabbed the arm that held his falchion and twisted it behind him, audibly snapping it as he drove the thick blade through its wielder's own back.

"Not quite the heart," Sandor growled into the man's ear, "but it'll do."

At that, he let go of the still-struggling commander's arm and slammed his kettle-helmed head into a stone wall, then again, and again. When Sandor released him after the third time, he slid lifeless to the ground, a pool of crimson spreading slowly across the dirt beneath him. When he turned, Lord Edmure himself had ridden in at the head of his soldiers, who were rounding up surrendered Haighs before the gate. Above the walls, a red sun rose, casting its first feeble rays across the keep and its walls stained red with blood.

"Tully," Sandor called, picking back up his broadsword and planting it into the ground before him, "the castle is yours."

* * *

Ser Brynden would never fight again, the maesters said. His right calf had been impaled by one of the wooden spikes that lined the Haighs' moat, and a second one had raked along his back before puncturing his shoulder. In time, he would convalesce, but he would never again join battle, swing a sword, lead his troops from anywhere but a tent. He would recover, but until the day he died he would walk with a limp. It could have been far worse, though. A pious septon who had accompanied them proclaimed that it was only by the grace of the Seven that Brynden had survived, that the Warrior himself had lifted him from the Haigh keep's moat as the battle raged.  _If that's what you call Borrick of the Wolfswood,_ Sandor mused, shaking his head as he watched them change the Blackfish's bloody bandages. Waiting for Ser Perym to bring forward the siege equipment that he had hastily constructed prior to the convoy's arrival in the wake of the duel's disastrous end and Lord Edmure's subsequent decision to storm the castle (an ill-made one, if the same septon was to be believed), he had watched the northern captain take three arrows in his thick black plates as he descended into the trench to retrieve the two injured combatants. Even rappelling from a rope tied around a wide tree stump, the man had nearly slipped on the muddy bank and joined the two on the spikes all the same. Sandor glanced to Brynden again, and the half dozen bloody splinters of wood that had accumulated at his bedside where the maesters had extracted them.  _At least he isn't as bad off as the Haigh._

Lady Catelyn, Lord Edmure, and the others took some small comfort in the fact that Ser Donnel's last, desperate attempt to defeat his foe had utterly backfired. Where the Blackfish would heal with time, Donnel Haigh was not long for this world; a spike had run him through and broken off in his side, where it remained even now, as the knight languished at death's door on a cot besides Brynden's. His weapons and armor had been stripped from him, and tossed haphazardly onto a nearby wooden table: a dented greathelm here, a tattered pitchfork surcoat there, a set of mud-coated arm and leg plates at the back, a broken arrow haft at the front, and in the center of it all, a once silver breastplate, now a dull crimson, sporting a gaping, jagged hole that punched clean through the back and out the front.

The man himself remained obstinate. Even as his life ebbed away, he refused to divulge anything regarding the Freys, their plan, or their cooperation with the Lannisters, spitting at the feet of Lord Edmure when he attempted an interrogation after the keep fell.  _It would have worked,_  he had said, gazing up at them with bloodshot eyes full of hate.  _It should have. How many lives have you damned?_

The knight's eyes still burned with loathing as Sandor passed his bedside, though his face had grown more pale since he had last seen him. Donnel Haigh had once been a handsome warrior, lean and fierce, but the past day had left only the shadow of a man, soon to fade away. Sandor had seen him half a dozen times before at tourneys, besting him in many a tilt and melees- he had always been a sore loser.

"What the hell are you doing here, dog? They send you to beat the truth out of me? Well…" He paused, wracked by a fit of coughing that sent blood trickling down his cheek, "…it's not going to work. I have nothing to lose, nothing to fear from you." A clammy hand shot out and grabbed hold of his wrist with surprising strength. "In fact, why don't you go ahead and finish it? You can do it, I know you can; you nearly did five years ago, at the Hornvale tourney. I saw you looking at my effects on that table. Just take one of those arrowheads and drive it in deep, right here." He lifted his chin, baring his throat. Donnel glanced at the lone guard at the tent's entrance, a northern captain out of Barrowton. "He won't try to stop you. Probably wouldn't try to stop anyone if they had the stones. I'd wager that you do, though." When Sandor remained still and silent, the hand grew more insistent, its grip tightening. "Come on, finish it! You and your lot have already killed everyone else- my father, Harys, Jerym... I'm the only one who's left."

Sandor smiled, taking Ser Donnel's wrist in his other hand and giving it a short, sharp twist.

"Mercy," he said, as the dying knight screamed in pain, "is far more than you and your masters deserve."

With a nod to the Dustin guard, Sandor left Donnel Haigh to his agony and brushed past the tent flap out into the cold autumn morning. Borrick was assembling his northmen in the ashen remnants of the burned town's square, while in the adjacent fields, while a Ser Damion Bracken, the Red Knight, did the same with the troops from the Riverlands. Addam Blanetree had garrisoned the fallen castle with his own levies, who watched from the parapets still stained with blood as Perym Wayn and his men herded the surviving Haigh smallfolk into a lesser square to be sorted, and took apart the makeshift timber bridges that they had laid across the moat for the siege towers.

"Clegane!" Lord Edmure called from across the row of burnt corn Sandor had emerged onto, through the open flap of his command tent. He was bent over a map along with Lady Catelyn and several attending knights and nobles. "How fares my uncle?"

"Well enough." Sandor called in reply, moving through the entrance. "He's a tough one, stubborn- won't let the Stranger take him. He'll make it, my lord."

Edmure chuckled, and at his side Lady Catelyn smiled despite herself. "Good. Ser Perym has agreed to escort him back to his keep. Utherydes Wayn is the steward at Riverrun; our families have always been close. They'll watch over him as he recovers. As for us, though we can scarcely afford it, we have been confronted with another delay. Two ravens, one from the New Castle in White Harbor and one from Barrow Hall, found their way to the Crossing- Lord Bracken sent out a rider to relay the messages to us." He gestured to a panting youth with a red stallion on his surcoat, then turned the map on the table so that Sandor could see it, placing his finger on the barren coast west of the Vale and north of their current location. "Lord Manderly has raised his reserves and those of his vassals and allies, as well as his fleet. The army will disembark here, at Whitehill, while the fleet will move past the Fingers and along the coast of the Vale, ready to blockade King's Landing at our signal, or Gulltown, if my sister does not cooperate. Lady Dustin and the Ryswells, meanwhile, have finally mustered the sense to marshal their full strength- ships carrying their troops cross Blazewater Bay as we speak. It only concerns me that it took a bloody assassination attempt on their king to rouse them. We will meet Lord Wyman and his reserves at the shore, and take two hundred of them to bolster the expedition's strength, and replace the soldiers we lost. In the Mountains of the Moon, we will need every man, mark my words."

"You'll need men like me." Sandor countered, his mouth twitching into a half-grin. "Don't worry, I'll do my part. The little wolf will never leave my side once we enter those mountains."

"That is… comforting." Catelyn managed, though her words were stiff and reluctant. "I thank you for your service. Could you fetch her now? We will depart soon, and she wanders."

He nodded, and passed once more out of the tent and into the dead fields; behind him, through the thick canvas, he could hear Lady Stark's muffled voice, rising in anger yet fading as he walked away.

"Are you a fool, brother? We take an enemy into our camp, and you treat him as if he were your lifelong friend and ally, sharing our plans… "

Her bitter remarks might have stung him, had he not long ago grown accustomed to such disparagement. For as long as he had been in King's Landing, he had endured the jeers of high nobles and their knights.  _Dog,_  they called him.  _Freak. Lunatic. Deformed._  Jalabar Xho had always addressed him as "Half-Face", and in his drunken tirades Robert had summoned him with far worse epithets; nothing that Catelyn Stark could say would ever wound Sandor Clegane.

After nearly half an hour of searching through burned-out shells of buildings and desolated farms, Sandor finally found Arya Stark sitting at the edge of the moat, turning a coin in hand as her eyes moved across the carnage beneath her. A Blanetree man-at-arms had fallen from the wall and been impaled upon the wooden spikes, his corpse twisted and maimed. Beyond his was that of a Haigh defender, half-submerged in the muddy water.

Kneeling down beside her, he laid a mailed hand on her shoulder.

"You shouldn't be here," he murmured, shaking his head, "your mother wouldn't want you to see this. Hell, I don't think you should be seeing this."

"I need to." Arya replied, meeting his eyes. "I won't be some stupid noble girl like Sansa, who ignores what's really happening, and wears dresses and goes to dances while hundreds of people die every day. If I'm going to kill everyone I promised to, I need to see it."

"Still bent on that, are we? And what does Lady Catelyn make of that goal?"

Her gaze fell to the coin in her hand, an old, weathered thing wrought of black iron.

"I haven't told her. I showed her this, but she told me to get rid of it. That it was dangerous, evil. I came out here to throw it in the moat, and then…"

She faltered, and grew silent.

"Well," he continued after some time, "I'm not the one to ask about things like that. Do whatever you want with it; I won't say a word either way. Now come on, we're about to move on, and they'll be expecting you."

Their trek back through the dead town was made in silence, with only the distant shouts of Damion and Borrick and the murmured greetings of the soldiers they passed breaking it. At the crossing of two minor streets, they came upon a stout stone well, still intact. Without a word, Arya drew the coin from her pocket and held it out over the abyss, her face contorted in thought. Sandor leaned against an ash-coated wooden post and watched, one eyebrow raised.  _Her choice. Not my place to intervene._  The change soon passed, though, and she withdrew the hand, pressing the coin to her lips.

_"Valar morghulis."_

* * *

Whitehill was a pariah of a town in Sandor had ever seen one. Alone on a strand of otherwise deserted coast, the town lied in squarely at the crux of the Neck, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North, and as such had experienced a wide array of owners throughout the centuries. Straddling the estuary of a minor river draining from the crannogs, in the Age of Heroes, it had fallen under the dominion of the Marsh Kings, and several tribes of their people had settled there. Later, when King Rickard Stark defeated and annexed the Kingdom of the Neck, he gifted the newly conquered land to the Whitehills, a minor noble family sworn to him who had fought with distinction, and they established a prosperous keep that soon became the center of trade in the Bite. In the years to come, though, during the wars between the Vale and the North, the area had been devastated by battle, passing between the two half a dozen times; when peace was finally reached, it was ceded to the Vale, but by the time it had recovered, it had been replaced with regards to trade by White Harbor and the newly arrived Manderlys.

In recent years it had seen an influx of Sistermen, who had darkened the town's reputation, reducing it to little more than a den of thievery and piracy. What scant trade that the Manderlys had not already monopolized soon slowed to a trickle, and with the outbreak of the War of the Five Kings, Whitehill had all but faded from the map.  _It even looks bloody depressing_ , Sandor thought, riding alongside Arya, Catelyn and Lord Edmure. The rickety wooden shantytowns of the Sistermen had spread across the settlement's namesake rise like mistletoe on a birch, strangling the life from the aging keep of old Lord Whitehill and the few remaining stone buildings that surrounded it. Makeshift watercraft ranging from barges to ferries to pirate galleys bringing in a day's plunder choked the narrow river, beyond which shone the dim lights of a lofty marble sept commissioned by the Arryns upon their annexation of the city. At the hill's crest was a bare patch of earth where the Whitehill godswood had once stood; now, only the heart tree remained, a great, stooping behemoth that looked as if it could tumble into the sea below at any moment.

Borrick and several of his lieutenants had scouted ahead, and rode back to the main party now with a group of Whitehills in tow. At their center was old Lord Jonothor, a white-haired man of some three and seventy years who, like his town, had seen far better days. Accompanying him were his son and heir, Kaylon, a brawny knight of forty, and his daughter, Jocelyn, a plain-faced, quiet girl not much younger than her brother, along with a retinue of northern guards and lesser knights from the Vale; though the Whitehills still ruled the town, the Arryns did occasionally attempt to impose some semblance of control. Edmure greeted the company warmly and welcomed them into his command tent, leaving only Sandor and Arya outside. Despite her protestations, he insisted that they not enter; he dared not tempt the wrath of Catelyn Stark a second time.

"I heard there are pirates here," the little she-wolf said nonchalantly, her eyes fixed on the distant river.

"Aye, Sistermen. They used to raid all along the northern coast of the Bite, but they have to restrict themselves to the Disputed Lands and the Stepstones now. Or at least, they pretend to. Every month or so, a fat merchantman out of White Harbor or Oldcastle disappears passing by here- the lord who lost it blames the Sistermen, and the Sistermen blame the storms. A few years back, they even managed to capture a Manderly warship out of Ramsgate. Lord Wyman has been moaning to the crown about it for years, wanting to go in and clear them out, but since Whitehill and the Sistermen belong to the Vale, he has no right to. Jon Arryn knew that if he tried to force the pirates out, he'd have a full-scale war with the Sisters on his hands. Robert would've liked that, I'm sure, but his Hand was a smarter man. Stannis used to sail in and hang a dozen of them every year or two, but Jon managed to restrain him from purging them like he wanted to."

He glanced to the horizon. Night was falling, and the shantytowns on their stilts were beginning to glow yellow and orange, lit by a thousand lamps. _Time to see what this town is made of_.

"Arya, head back to your tent. I'm going into the town for a while, and Whitehill is no place for a highborn girl."

"But-"

"None of that. These are Sistermen, pirates and thieves. If they got their hands on you, half of them would ransom you for a small fortune, and the other half would rape you first. You're staying here."

She turned back with a scowl on her face, but obeyed all the same. Sandor grinned, putting his heel to Stranger and making for the river, and the loudest tavern he could find. The establishment in question, the Drunken Sister, hung precariously over the boat-ridden waters, at the back of a busy market square which readily displayed the settlement's full diversity: For every Whitehill pile-and-stars that fluttered in the breeze, there was an Arryn moon-and-falcon, and for every one of those, there were two Borell spider crabs- the settlers from Sisterton had founded a cadet branch of the house, which was currently led by Godfrey Borell, Lord Godric's nephew. Bridling his horse, he watched as a brawl between two burly northerners and a pack of inebriated Sistermen erupted in the street, and a Vale knight rushed to intervene. From the stilted wooden walkways and buildings above, other citizens shouted encouragement to their favored party, their cries echoing throughout the square.

Upon entering the tavern, he was immediately accosted by two lean, fierce Sistermen demanding a fee for newcomers; they backed off when they saw his face, though, swearing fiercely, and the entire room grew as silent as the grave. Ignoring the shock plain on the face of every patron, he drew the remaining ransom gold that he had been given for Arya's return, and slammed the pouch down on a table.

"Which one of you sons of whores has the stones to fight for me?"

Just as he had expected, the tavern burst into a deafening cacophony of shouts of assent, with mercenaries, smugglers, and pirates shoving their way towards him.

"Quiet!" He barked, shoving back an overeager sellsword who had grabbed at his arm; to his satisfaction, the men quickly complied. "Now line up, and…"

Sandor was interrupted by the bellowing of a horse from outside, followed by a scream and a loud crack.  _Stranger._ With several candidates at his heels, he rushed back out the door, just as a Sisterman fell dying before the steps, half of his head smashed in. Two others were dashing away down the narrow streets, shoving aside bystanders and guards alike.  _Horse thieves,_  he realized, glancing to Stranger; the great black stallion was still rearing, his hooves, one slick with gore, high in the air.  _The damn fools tried to steal him._  He extended a gloved finger towards the two fleeing brigands.

"I'll hire the first man who can bring down both of them."

Drawing their blades, a group of men started after them, running as fast as their legs could take them. One, however, a tall, lean, armored patron with a thick beard and shaved head, remained where he stood on the tavern steps, drawing a great yew longbow, nocking an arrow, and aiming carefully down the street at the slower of the two. He loosed, and moments later the first thief fell dead on the road just as the others reached him, an arrow clean through his back. The second man, far more nimble than his companion, had climbed a pole onto one of the walkways, and was making his way towards the bridge that spanned the river, easily outpacing his pursuers. An arrow soon found him as well, though, plunging through his neck and pinning his corpse to a wooden wall. Sandor laughed, shaking his head and clapping a hand on the archer's shoulder.

"Seven hells, that was some damn fine shooting. Now, what do they call you?"

"Ser Daryn," the man responded, "of Gods Eye. Hedge knight and freerider. I'm here working security for a smuggler on his ship, but I think he'll understand."

"That, or we'll make him. Smart man. Come back inside and we'll have a drink, we can discuss the price later."

Two hours and far too many drinks later, they had forgotten all about the price.

"Sister's stew!" Daryn bellowed to the bar, slamming a copper onto the table as Sandor slammed down a flagon of ale (after so many similar occurrences in the past few hours, it was a miracle that it hadn't split in two by then). "Help clear my friend's head, would you?"

"And why would I want to do that?" Sandor replied, leaning back in his chair with a scowl on his reddened face. "After spending two days with Catelyn Stark breathing down my neck, being drunk is a relief."

"You can't fuck a whore proper if you're too drunk to see her tits," the hedge knight countered, shrugging, "and that's what we're about to do. They've got some truly lovely girls upstairs."

"They say you can't fight a man proper if you're too drunk to see his sword, but I've done that just fine."

"You sure they say that?" Ser Daryn said, taking two bowls of stew from a trembling server and setting them down with a grin. "Don't where I come from."

"You calling me a liar?"

"No more than I am. Though now that you mention it, what would you say your toughest fight was? Aside from the ones you were drunk in, I suppose."

"You first," Sandor grunted, attacking the stew with vigor, as tasteless and bland as it was, "or have you forgotten that I'm paying for all this?"

"Fine, fine. Now, this was twenty or so years ago, right before the Rebellion. I was eighteen, still a green boy, just knighted, but full of myself- I'd killed two or three men, so naturally I thought I was the bloody Warrior. I was running with a good crew, though, so they kept me safe. Just like I do here, I was working security for a smuggling operation, me along with Ser Delmor Darke, a freerider, my mentor. Then there were the smugglers... Elvayn Hill, a Lannister bastard, prettyboy, sweet-talker, Davos, best sailor I've ever known, Halon Codd and Delvin Sunderland, theives, vagrants, but damn good at what they did..." He paused, his suddenly solemn gaze fixed on a far-off point. Nostalgia shone clear in his eyes, even as he swayed drunkenly bath and forth.

"We made a damn fine team, we did. Until one night in Lannisport. It was an ambitious plan that we'd cooked up- too ambitious. Davos and Delmor warned us that something would happen, but the rest of us wouldn't listen. We were going to unload half of the crates of gold off a massive merchant ship bound for the Free Cities the night before she set off, and replace them with crates of iron- the tops were shut, so you couldn't see inside.  _We'll be set for life,_ Halon and Delvin kept saying,  _rich_   _men until the end of our days._ It did go well at first, I'll give them that. Elvayn knew the city like the back of his hand, and could play it like a fiddle. He pulled some strings with the harbormaster, came up with a few distractions- no more guards, for an hour or two, at least. Davos sailed his little black boat right up next to the ship, and once Elvayn had gotten the crew so drunk that they could barely stand, the rest of us climbed into the cargo hold and started our work.

Halfway through, though, the hatch opened, and the Lannisport City Watch poured in. Someone had tipped them off- I never found out who. Suppose it really doesn't make a difference. Elvayn threw down his sword as soon as they drew theirs, and Delmor tried to parlay with them, but Halon and Delvin wouldn't have none of it. They knew that they would be executed if they were taken; Hill could talk his way out, and Darke was a knight, but it would be the gallows for them, so they attacked, the fools, and all hell broke loose. I saw Halon cut down right in front of me, Delvin beheaded. Butchery, it was. Ser Delmor and I held them off for a while, but in the end we didn't stand a bloody chance; eventually, he took a spear through the back, and shoved me out the hatch and back onto the  _Black Betha_  with the last of his strength, just as Davos was pulling away. He and I were the only ones to make it out of there. Our partnership didn't last long after that, of course."

 _A bloody talker, this one is,_  Sandor mused, grinning over a ladle of stew. Though it didn't matter, he supposed, if the hedge knight could kill as well as he could embellish a story.

"Now, how about yours?" The freerider continued, leaning eagerly across the table.

Sandor pondered the prospect for a moment, then looked Daryn dead in the eye, one brow cocked.

"Kill a few more men for me, and maybe I'll consider telling you. Now, about those whores..."

* * *

Lord Wyman, who refused to drop anchor at the Whitehill docks, arrived at a barren, windswept beachhead east of the town with a spectacle fitting his girth, an hour before midday. His fleet, anchored offshore, was a magnificent sight to behold, its twenty-odd warships ranging from massive, looming dromonds to light, agile river galleys to nearly everything in between. Though a large portion of the flotilla was obscured by the morning fog, direwolf banners were still visible, flapping from each mast.

Sitting astride Stranger with Arya at his right and Ser Daryn in as much of a rusty suit of armor as he could scrounge at his left, Sandor watched from the peak of a low sand dune through bleary, bloodshot eyes as Lord Lamprey and half a dozen knights and retainers came ashore in a pair of longboats (Wyman required an entire one solely for himself), and met Edmure and Catelyn, Jonothor Whitehill, and Godfrey Borell at the shore; the Sisterman lord had arrived with a party of vagabonds and pirates as his escort at dawn, offended that he had not been invited to greet Edmure when he initially arrived, and demanding recompense. A few stern words from Lord Tully regarding ropes, nooses, and several of his good friends, however, had served to curb his audacity. Under ordinary circumstances Sandor would have joined them, just as he had before, but as penance for his recent nocturnal escapades, from which he had not returned until an hour before dawn, Lady Stark had barred him from doing so.

"This isn't so bad." Daryn grunted, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he dismounted his horse and began to take a piss in a stand of long grass. "We don't have to listen to this lord and that knight and all their ilk prattle on about politics and courtesies for half the bloody day. One time, I…"

His story was cut short when a distant wave of shouts muffled by the driving wind went up among the men in the camps below; what they entailed, he could not discern. Leaving Arya with his new hired blade, he put his heel to Stranger and galloped down the dune and towards the encampment's east gate, where a mailed Condon retainer stood as sentry.

"News from the war?" Sandor called, gazing up at the man as the wooden doors swung open before him.

"No, from the capital." From ten feet away, he could see the man break into a smile. "Joffrey is dead."


	6. Jason II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the pause in uploads, got sidetracked by university for a while! Chapters should be coming up pretty regularly again starting now.

**JASON**

Never had Jason Mallister been happier to return home than when he rode there from the Twins, Ser Martyn and his triumphant band of still nearly one thousand at his back and his son at his side. They'd taken a surprisingly light amount of casualties, with only nine silver eagles and eighty-seven of his other men lost to the Freys and their lot- some of the other houses set upon in the ambush hadn't been nearly as lucky. Many of Robb's personal retainers and companions had been butchered, and several massive tents went up in flames along with their occupants before Martyn and his men could intervene. The Young Wolf himself had been slowly edging toward recovery when Jason took his leave of the Crossing, but it would be some time before he could ride again in battle.

"There she is." Patrek Mallister nudged his father with a mailed elbow, pointing over a grove of pine trees ahead of them to where Seagard's grey towers were visible through the morning fog. Their keep was a modest one, not endowed with the lofty spires of Harrenhal or the massive walls of Storm's End, but a stout, easily defensible bastion against waves and reavers all the same. Originally an even more modestly sized fortress built by the Storm Kings, it was seized during Petyr Mallister's rebellion against them, after the ancestral Mallister keep on the Cape of Eagles was put to the torch. It had languished while the Ironborn ruled the Riverlands, stripped of its defenses and its purpose by Harwyn Hardhand and his heirs, neglected and regularly raided. The house had nearly gone extinct by the time Aegon finally drove the Hoares back to the Iron Islands with Balerion's flames. Since the Conquest, though, they had fared extraordinarily well; they quickly regained their former position as defenders of the coast and swelled in size, so much so that a second set of walls had to be built around the Old Fort by Jason's grandfather to enclose the sprawl of the town.

"Race you there," Patrek said suddenly, his still youthful face full of mirth as he bolted forward through the pines, his stallion's hooves kicking up clumps of dewy grass and soil.

Jason laughed, putting heel to his destrier and following closely.

"You never could beat me without a head start."

"No idea what you're talking about!" Patrek called back, his voice full of mirth.

Father and son continued to ride through the forest at a breakneck pace, soon leaving Ser Martyn and the company of Mallister men far behind. Tanners' and woodcutters' huts passed by them in a blur as they swerved to avoid a group of woodsmen bringing in a massive buck, then bounded through the shallows of a narrow stream to avoid the stone bridge, crowded with smallfolk. Several passing Mallister guardsmen hailed them with shouts when they rejoined the main road, cheering on one or the other; races between the two had been common occurrences at Seagard since the day Patrek could ride. Jason was slowly gaining on the younger Mallister, and as he came up beside Patrek, he glanced to his side, watching the young man's handsome, youthful features, fixed with determination. Barely twenty, Patrek had strived eagerly to live up to his father's lofty reputation in war and tourneys alike, proving to be exceptional with sword and axe, and already nearly as good as Jason on horseback. At his insistence, Jason had allowed him to join him in entering the Hand's tourney thrown for Ned Stark what now seemed like an eternity ago. He was knocked out of the running in the joust by Lord Antario Jast during the second round, but had performed exceedingly well during the melee; while Jason struggled with Forley Prester, Patrek bested Lord Wyl and two of his retainers before he in turn was defeated by Yohn Royce.

He jumped at the chance to be part of Robb Stark's personal guard during the war, finding resounding success at Whispering Woods and Oxcross before nearly meeting his death at the Twins.  _To think I almost lost you._ He shuddered to think of Patrek's blood joining that of the dozens of others cut down by quarrels and in the West Castle's great hall, soaking into the stones of the floor.  _If we'd arrived half a minute later…_ But they did make it in time, he was quick to remind himself, and it was over now. Patrek had fought his way out of the camps with Martyn's soldiers, saving three Blackwood retainers from a burning tent and even helping Greatjon Umber defeat Ser Walder Rivers, Lord Frey's deadly bastard, now imprisoned in a Drowning Room.  _If only she could see how he's grown._ Jason's thoughts grew somber again as they turned to his wife. Elayne Ryger had been his childhood sweetheart, fierce but kind, strong-willed but gentle. At twelve, he met her while squiring for her father, Robin, before he was captain of the guard at Riverrun, and was quickly smitten.

They shared their first kiss at thirteen, sitting on the bank of the Green Fork, and by sixteen, they had shared a great deal of experiences in the castle cellars. They were married shortly before Robert's Rebellion; Patrek could barely talk in complete sentences when Jason followed his father, Janos Mallister, to war, thinking of his new family every day, during every clash. When Lord Janos was cut down by Jon Connington's men during the Battle of the Bells, and Jason's head was grievously wounded the same day, he took his leave, retiring to Seagard for the remainder of the conflict. It was there, only a few short years after Robert's crowning as king, that Jason's fears that his new life was too good to last were finally realized. Elayne died giving birth to their daughter, Alara- Alara, who looked so much like her mother, who filled his heart with joy and pain in equal amounts every time he saw her face. Per an agreement made before the realm descended into chaos, she currently served as a handmaiden to Lady Ynys Yronwood in Dorne.  _Far away from the war, thank the gods._ Thanks to the Dornish disdain for the crown, the Yronwoods luckily remained apathetic to her family's loyalty to Robb Stark- for now, at least.

Distracted by his musing, Jason lagged ever so slightly behind, which Patrek was quick to remind him of when they burst from the forest and came upon the keep's outer walls.

"Beat you again, father."

Jason shook the sorrow from his mind, cracking a wry grin.

"Only because I took pity on you. All my victories were becoming excessive- I'm sure you understand."

The gates creaked open to reveal Ser Martyn Tallhart already inside, doubled over with laughter.

"You bloody fools always forget the shortcut past the mill."

* * *

It was high noon by the time all the men had been quartered in the Old Fort's extensive barracks and Jason had settled in his quarters, though with the pall of a thick layer of grey clouds hanging over the shore, he could scarcely tell.

"Storm coming in from the north." Maester Haris remarked with a knowing glance through the open window as he entered Jason's chambers. A thin, reedy Dornishman with greying hair and olive skin, he had been squire to Prince Lewyn Martell before losing an arm and his taste for war at the Trident. More recently, his connections in his homeland had been instrumental in securing Alara's position at Yronwood.

"Aye, it's that season." Jason stood with a heavy sigh and gazed out across his keep. At the other end of the Old Fort, on the edge of a crag, the Booming Tower loomed huge against the dour sky, the torches at its four corners illuminating its massive bronze bell, the largest in the Seven Kingdoms. The last time it rang, the beach below it had been swarming with hordes of reavers, awash with the wreckage of the Mallister fleet that now sat in the bay.

"Six ships, Haris." He frowned; his fleet of eight had been lessened by two when he sent Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont up the Saltspear. "My ancestors fielded over a hundred ships at their height, did they not?"

"For some years, yes." The maester stepped up beside the lord, his thumb absentmindedly running across the link for history in his chain, a loop of well-worn copper. "The first Mallisters are said to have challenged Torgon Greyiron's hold on the Cape of Eagles with an armada of nearly two hundred, and while that figure is likely exaggerated, I'm afraid the numbers have dwindled ever since. What was a fleet of nearly fifty at the height of the Targaryens' reign was reduced to thirty by the Dance of Dragons, then to nothing by the Greyjoys."

"And now, when my king calls, I can muster only six."

He glanced to the harbor west of the treacherous cliffs beneath the fortress, where construction had already begun on six more warships; scaffolds and piles of timber had sprung up practically overnight amid a bustling hive of activity.

"Has Ser Orren said when they'll be ready?"

"Two weeks for the three longships, and four for the war galleys."

Jason grunted, shaking his head.

"Not soon enough."

Haris laid a lined hand on the taller man's shoulder.

"You worry yourself too much, my lord. The men are working at a breakneck pace, I assure you. Construction is well underway, and I sent ravens to Barrowton, Flint's Finger, and the Rills, just as you commanded. Forces from all three houses are crossing Blazewater Bay as we speak, and will be here by week's end in full force- twenty ships and hundreds of men, ready for battle. Five more will follow from the Mormonts the following week, along with a handful of others I managed to gather together from the mountain clans and lesser houses along Cape Kraken, the Stony Shore, and the Bay of Ice. You are the King in the North's Lord Deputy, and the North has answered our call."

"Still, thirty-odd ships is no Iron Fleet."

"Mallister navies have overcome great odds before," Haris chided gently, "and I have no doubt that under your command they will again. There was a raven for you, though- from Lord Edmure, I presume."

The maester held out a scroll, the Tully trout pressed into the blue wax seal. Jason took the letter in hand, sinking back into his chair as he unfurled it. To his surprise, though, the parchment was filled with elegant loops instead of Edmure's infamously illegible scratches- the man's refusal to dictate his letters to a maester was a long-running jape among Riverland nobles.

_Lord Jason,_

_I hope this finds you well, returned safely home after all the blood and death that you witnessed. I regrettably never had the chance to thank you properly at the Crossing, but mere words cannot begin to convey the gratitude that I feel for you and your soldiers. As I'm sure you well know, I simply wouldn't be alive to write you had you not intervened. I wouldn't have been reunited with my daughter, wouldn't have seen my last son open his eyes and smile at me the next morning. We will never be able to fully repay you, and I know that new lands and a new title hardly amount to a worthy attempt, but I hope to begin to try._

_Catelyn Stark_

With a wave of his hand and a dip of his quill into an inkwell, Jason dismissed Haris and set to composing a reply, a soft smile on his lips.

* * *

A thick wave of cold sleet had begun to roll over the bay by the time Jason descended from his chambers to the main keep, drowning the crackling of the corridors' torches with a deafening roar of sharp taps. Frigid gusts of wind broke upon his side at every window he passed, blowing the pellets of ice against his leather and mail; he grimaced to think of the looming winter as he strode through two massive oaken doors and into the castle's cavernous central chamber. Though its vaulted ceilings were lofty and its pillars were near as big as the Red Keep's, the great hall had no one, monstrous throne. Since the walls of Seagard had first flown Mallister banners, the seven members of the Lord's High Table had ruled together, hearing the grievances of the smallfolk and advising their liege's decisions in times of war and peace alike. The castle maester, the septon, and the lord's heir sat to his left, while the master-at-arms, the castellan, and the ranking commander of the house's armies occupied his right. Learning and reason balanced with warcraft and discipline- at least, that had been the original intent.

Haris, Patrek, and Torbald, a haggard, white-bearded man who had taken to fasting in protest of the cruelties of the war, stood at once when he entered, while Martyn continued to argue in hushed tones with the castellan, Donal Lolliston; a stern glance from the septon quickly rendered the two silent. A heavyset noble with a thick red-grey beard, Donal had long been a family friend, securing the nobles of Seagard with barrels of his house's famous ale on many an occasion. He had proved himself surprisingly adept in war as well, earning his position when he led his elderly father's meager forces to Seagard's defense during the Greyjoy Rebellion with shockingly effective results. While the fighting raged inside the castle and town, he and several of his men hid in their own barrels and cast themselves into a nearby river, floating downstream and out into the bay. They emerged behind the Ironborn lines, setting fire to nine beached longships before they were forced to flee.

Try as he might, Jason couldn't ignore the empty chair as he moved to take his seat; the others' gaze often fell upon it as well. While the High Table had weathered many vacancies from war in prior years, none had ever been half as damning as that of Ser Jerym Haigh. Serving as master-at-arms since swearing himself to Jason at Pyke, as curt and cold as he had always been, the knight had become a fixture at Seagard over the past ten years. The other members of the Table had long grown accustomed to the gruff, pragmatic advice he offered at every meeting, the dogged determination with which he taught young nobles how to fight, how to stand. Now, the chair was empty.

"We have lost one of our own," Jason began, "and you all know why. I took his life with my own hand. A new master-at-arms will be chosen by the time the fleet sets out. If anyone wishes to speak on the matter before we continue, let them do it now."

Donal finally broke the silence after several endless moments.

"I say good riddance to him, my lord. Let us not dwell on the traitor."

Martyn nodded solemnly.

"He may have pretended to be one of us, but he told you himself, my lord- he was always their man. He's rotting in seven hells now."

"He  _was_  one of us." Patrek countered. Taught much of what he knew about fighting by the man, he had been closer than most to Jerym. "Once, at least. I can't believe that he never was. All the years he spent on this table, all the hours by our sides- he wasn't a traitor for all of it. But he chose the wrong path, and he paid the price."

Septon Torbald stood, his deep, sonorous voice booming throughout the hall. As much as the man sometimes frustrated Jason with his excessive piety, he could hold a crowd like no other.

"Indeed he did. May the Father judge him justly, as he judges us all. Ser Jerym is in the hands of the Stranger now, and there is nothing more that we can do for one who so often blasphemed the Seven, and so flagrantly misused the gifts the Warrior granted him."

They left the matter closed at that, and with a wave of his hand to the guard at the door, the lord ushered in the first of those waiting to seek audience with the Table. Ser Orren of Oldstones, the captain of Jason's company of freeriders, strode through the hall with his characteristic air of satisfied self-confidence about him, his dark metal plates clinking softly. He came to a stop at the foot of the steps that led up to the table and broke into a smile through his short black beard, his hand at his morning star's hilt.

"Good to see you back, Lord Jason. I heard you gave those treasonous cunts at the Twins a real thrashing- wish I'd been there to join in."

Jason couldn't help but grin at that.

"Aye, Orren, we did. If I'd known, I wouldn't have let you miss it for the world."

"I wouldn't have let you keep me. But on to the matter at hand- your new ships. I've got every laborer in the town and half of my men working day and night on them, and we're hauling in all the wood we can find. If all goes well, we'll have the first batch of longships done by the time the Mormonts and their lot get here. The war galleys will take a bit longer, of course, but we'll send them to your fleet the moment they break water."

Martyn leaned forward intently, stroking his beard.

"Excellent. And how has the recruitment of new sailors been progressing?"

"Well enough. The Keaths are always happy to provide us with more men, and I'm sure Donal won't mind if I borrow a few of his reserves."

Donal chuckled, but gave his assent all the same, shaking his head as Orren took his leave. The next group to enter the hall did so much less enthusiastically, defeat and disgrace painted clear on their faces.

"That would be the Vyprens," Haris leaned toward Jason, his voice dropping to a whisper, "come to formally bend the knee to you. I'd advise you not to injure their pride more than it already is- Robb humiliated them enough already when he gave you their lands and took their lord prisoner, and the last thing the Riverlands need is another insurrection."

The man at the center of the sullen trio, Ser Landon Vypren, drew his sword, laying it at the foot of the stairs as he knelt along with his retainers.

"House Vypren is yours to command, my liege." The words came reluctantly, each with a tinge of hesitance. "Lakewatch and all its lands are at your disposal."

Jason beckoned the man with a hand.

"Rise, Ser Landon. We both know what you did, why you've been punished. To be frank, I'm appalled by your lord brother's actions, but I don't intend to whip beat dogs. I won't evict you from your castle or exile you from your lands, but there will be just penance."

"You can start," Ser Martyn interjected, "by sending fifty good, fighting men and as much timber as you can muster to our docks by the week's end."

"And by allowing a garrison of thirty of my guardsmen to take up residence at Lakewatch as soon as they are able," Donal added.

Septon Torbald was beginning to deliver a parable on the piety of the humble when the doors to the hall burst suddenly open, and a thin man in a drenched traveling cloak and hood strode in, shaking off the attempts of the chamber's guards to restrain him.

"My lord Mallister," he called out, trailing water behind him until he was finally detained at the center of the room, "forgive my intrusion, but I bring urgent news from Tidereach."

His cloak fell aside to reveal the fishes and hooks of House Keath's sigil on his surcoat, and once the two guards released him, he fell to one knee, water still dripping from his curled brown hair.

"I must needs speak with you at once." He glanced to the three men beside him, who eyed him sullenly. "In confidence."

Jason exchanged a glance with Haris, then waved out the Vyprens with a frail semblance of an apology, and dismissed the guards. Once the Keath was alone with the High Table, he rose to his feet, breathless thanks and pleas for forgiveness tumbling from his lips.

"On with it," Torbald interrupted with a frown, "what have you come to say?"

The Keath locked eyes with Jason after taking a moment to compose himself.

"Last night, one of our fishing boats was thrown off course by the winds, blown west of our borders. They saw… ships, my lord, Banefort and Lannister galleys, ranging past the border and toward the Riverlands. Half a dozen other villages along the coast have reported seeing them as well, and they raided one holdfast in the night, took prisoners and disappeared. We don't know what the bloody hell they're playing at, but it's got the smallfolk in a right panic."

Martyn swore softly, and even Haris looked unsettled. Their lord frowned deeply, sinking into contemplation. After a tense silence, during which only the muted roar of the sleet and the crackling of the torches could be heard, he finally spoke.

"Ser Martyn, take a hundred men and garrison yourselves in the fishing villages west of Tidereach, especially the settlements that have already sighted these ships. Whatever they mean to accomplish by this, I will not allow the Lannisters and their ilk to terrorize my bannermen with impunity." He sighed deeply. "Beyond that, though, I can do nothing more for now."

Donal frowned, his bushy red brows furrowed.

"Surely we should try to assess how much of a threat these ships pose to Seagard at the least? In fact, I suggest we pay them back in kind, send some of our own ships or Ser Orren and his freeriders across the border to spook their people, raid their towns."

"As much as I might wish to, I cannot." Jason shook his head solemnly. "That's likely what their intent is-to draw us out, isolate us. If all has gone according to Robb's plan, they don't yet know that they failed to kill him at the Twins, and they're keen to find out by any means necessary, even if that means interrogating Keath smallfolk, or provoking me into moving on them so that they can capture my soldiers and do the same to them. I will protect Lord Keath's people, but my king's order was to capture Pyke, and we'll need every last ship and man to do that. I won't risk my fleet or any more of my soldiers than I have to by playing this game of theirs- that is my final say on the matter."

* * *

The next two weeks passed by in a blur of letters and arriving ships. Martyn reported regularly on the status of his expedition to the Keath villages; the ships, led by a Banefort knight, from the best Tallhart could tell, had only grown more frequent and bold in their raiding after becoming certain of Robb's survival, leading to several skirmishes, until they'd recently and suddenly ceased. It had only been a few days, though, so for now, Martyn's orders remained the same. Jason had been keeping up a correspondence with Catelyn Stark as well, until she was forced to stop writing when they entered the Mountains of the Moon. The last he'd heard, Edmure's expedition had reached the Bloody Gate, but not fully intact, wracking him with worry. He was glad, though, to hear that Torrhen and the twenty Silver Eagles he had sent with the convoy were proving useful, and even more lightened by the news from the east, of Joffrey's death and the chaos that had befallen King's Landing. Even Alara had written him from Yronwood, talking of the rising anger she could sense among the nobles at Lord Anders' court in the wake of Oberyn's death.

In the meantime, Northern ships were sailing into the bay in waves. The Flints of Flint's Finger arrived first with six galleys and near two hundred men, followed closely by the elderly Lord Rodrik Ryswell, at the head of a fleet of fourteen Ryswell and Dustin ships, filled to the brim with almost nine hundred soldiers, and in the case of the Ryswells, two hundred horses. Next came two longships from House Ironsmith, reclusive descendants of long-departed Ironborn raiders who populated the coast of Cape Kraken, then another two from House Waterman, fishermen along the Stony Shore; the two lesser houses barely mustered a hundred and fifty fighting men between them.

Finally, on a cold, clear morning thirteen days after Jason sent Martyn west, just as Orren oversaw the completion of the first three new Mallister ships, the last stragglers were brought in by the frigid tide. The Mormonts, led by Alysane, the Young She-Bear, supplied five longships and a hundred men, while the Wulls of the Bay of Ice brought four ancient but still sturdy Hoare and Greyjoy war galleys, spoils from their long, bitter history of conflict with the Ironmen in the days before the Targaryens. Their clan had proved especially keen to invade the home of their enemy of old when Haris managed to reach them (how, Jason had no clue), sending four hundred grizzled and ferocious warriors.

"That would be the last of them." The maester said with a sigh of relief as the Wull clansmen finished disembarking, and were gradually shepherded by Donal's men into the forest of tents that had sprung up outside the harbor.

Jason chuckled, watching the mass of warriors pass through the gate beneath them from their vantage point on the high harbor walls.

"You weren't lying when you said they were eager. What's the final count?"

Haris glanced back down to where he was jotting notes on a piece of parchment that he'd set on one of the parapet's stones.

"Counting our fleet, thirty-eight ships, along with just under nineteen hundred Northern soldiers. With our remaining strength, and troops from our bannermen, our infantry will number well over three thousand."

"Seventeen hundred Northerners." Jason grunted. "You forget, the Ryswell cavalry rode south to meet Tytos Blackwood's army three days ago. I hear they've been meeting dogged resistance thus far."

"Indeed. The accounts of the battles of Castamere and Deep Den were particularly riveting- I was sorry to hear of some of those who were lost."

"Aye, Forley Prester is bleeding them for every inch of ground they take. I hear Daven Lannister has taken leave of the campaign, though. Was he wounded?"

"No one is certain, but his absence is a boon all the same."

Jason turned to the camps, his eyes roving over the bustle and the clamor, the canvas tents stretching a mile down the beach.

"Three thousand men and not even forty ships to take the Iron Islands. It's a valiant effort, but we truly are doomed to fail, aren't we, Haris?"

"Not if everything goes according to plan."

As grudging as the increasingly cynical lord of Seagard was to admit it, he and the rest of the High Table (Septon Torbald excluded) had indeed devised a promising strategy. While a portion of the fleet would sail north and attack Blacktyde, distracting the Iron Fleet, the rest would swing south and seize Pyke while it was defenseless, hopefully forcing Victarion to stand down.  _If he doesn't, we're all fucked._ Donal and his guardsmen, along with the ships and soldiers of Houses Keath and Lolliston, would remain behind to ensure Seagard's safety against Lannister incursions while they were gone, while Martyn was to stay near Tidereach with his own men, ready to aid either Seagard or Jason if needed.

"Aye, but what ever does? Summon the Northern lords to the Ryswell tent- we sail on the evening tide."

* * *

Lord Rodrik Ryswell's golden horsehead banners flew high over the forest of tents, visible even from the edge of the harbor, flapping and waving in the cold morning breeze. Though the two sons he had brought had ridden south with two hundred cavalry days ago, the makeshift stables where the horses had been kept still stunk of manure; Jason cringed as he walked past them and into the mazelike camps, Ser Orren of Oldstones and two Mallister guards at his side. They passed by a spirited wrestling match between Alysane Mormont and a Wull clansman, and several mock duels between Dustin and Ryswell men-at-arms, with Orren frequently stopping along the way to root for one contestant or the other. All around them, the morning fires were cooking seventeen hundred soldiers their breakfast, and his stomach growled in protest as they passed Lord Waterman's tent, where iron skillets full of eggs and fresh cod were sizzling over the braziers. He was eventually persuaded by a Flint retainer to take in hand a piece of bread soaked in honey and a half golden apple, both of which he was still in the process of hastily finishing when a Ryswell spearman held open the flap to Rodrik's canvas palace of a tent and beckoned them inside; Orren quickly scoffed down the remainder of a sausage he had nicked from an inattentive Ironsmith's wooden plate as they entered.

But for Alysane, who soon arrived after besting her third Wull in a row, all of the Northern leaders were gathered around a massive round table, covered in a frail map of the Iron Islands and Ironman's Bay that Haris had fetched from the Seagard library. The faded ink scratchings of a long-dead Mallister were still visible in one corner, talking of battle plans made centuries ago. The six nobles bowed when Jason entered, while Ollo Wull, brother of their chieftain, Hugo, who had remained in the North to guard their lands, beat his chest in respect, and was the first to speak.

"You are Lord Eagles, yes? You seek to free the North from the squids who stole it from the Ned's son?"

_Lord Eagles? That's one I haven't heard before._

"Aye, that would be me. I know the Ironborn have raided your lands before- they've done the same to my family for a thousand years, and now I intend to repay them in kind."

Ollo grinned, revealing several missing teeth, and laid his axe on the table.

"Good. It's been many winters since my people have fought with the squids, but they're eager to do it again."

Lord Rodrik spoke next; his gold and red armor still fit him well, and his two and seventy years were only betrayed by his shoulder-length grey hair and trimmed beard, gradually whitening.

"My people haven't quite the same ancient enmity with the Ironborn, and I must say that we're unaccustomed to this naval business, but I will serve my king all the same. I stayed in the Rills when he called for aid the first time, told myself that I was too old and grey, and I'll be damned if I make the same mistake again. I haven't many years left in me, and it grows painful to sit a saddle; leave the riding to my sons. I'll sail into battle for my first time and my last."

"I'll drink to that." At nine and fifty, the sable-cloaked Lord Harrion Flint wasn't nearly as frail, but his lined face and greying black hair showed his age all the same as he raised his goblet. "I haven't commanded a ship since I was a young man, but I'll gladly do it again to drive those cowardly bastards from their salt-stained piles of rubble."

All around the table, the nobles banged their own goblets in agreement, while Ollo banged his axe.

"Your enthusiasm is heartening," Jason began once they fallen silent, "but we'll need more than rousing speeches to bring the Iron Fleet to heel. I'm sure Maester Haris has briefed you all on the broad strokes of our strategy, but before we sail, you'll need to be intimately familiar with the details of your roles."

Two carved wooden eagle pieces representing the fleet sat by Seagard on the map, and Jason moved them both into Ironman's Bay.

"We will sail together out into the bay, then divide the fleet east of Harlaw."

He slid one of the pieces around the northern end of the island, and the other around its southern end.

"Lord Flint will lead his own men, the Dustins, the Ironsmiths, and the Watermans, a total of sixteen ships, in a raid on Blacktyde. This will draw Victarion and his fleet-" here he moved three wooden krakens north to meet the eagle- "out to meet them, and free the rest of the fleet to sail in and take hold of Pyke before they know what's happening."

He moved the other eagle accordingly.

"We don't know who has seized power at Pyke after Balon's death, but whoever they are, if they remain at the Seastone Chair, we'll take them prisoner, occupy the castle, and threaten whatever is necessary to force Victarion to yield when he and his ships return. Any objections?"

"Not as long as we get to kill squids." Ollo grunted. "I want to feel their puny little bones break beneath my axe and my fists."

Casting a concerned glance towards the clansman, Ryon Stout, vassal to Lady Barbrey and leader of the attendant Dustin forces, stood next.

"What of the ships sailing to the north? We're being sent like lambs to slaughter. We'll be at the bottom of the sea by the time Victarion turns south again."

"Rest assured, you are no sacrifice. We have already begun filling one of the Waterman ships with barrels of pitch. When the Iron Fleet draws near to you, Lord Flint will light the ship and send it into their midst. It should buy you enough time to turn and make an organized retreat northward, towards Cape Kraken. Lord Ironsmith's people will shelter you from there if necessary, but the Ironborn should have turned to make for Pyke by then."

It was Alysane who spoke next, tracing her finger on the southern route.

"I don't like how close this takes us to the Banefort. They're still holding out against Tytos' army, are they not?"

Jason frowned, his gaze shifting to the castle, in all its damning proximity to Pyke.

"Aye, it hasn't yet fallen, but one of my finest knights threw them back from the coast west of Tidereach. If all goes well, they'll still be cowering in their harbor when we pass by."

When no one else spoke up, the Lord Deputy continued.

"I know it's not a perfect plan, but now that we've all arrived, we can't afford to spend another week sitting on our arses. Ready your men, prepare your ships. We sail at evenfall."

* * *

No longer a squire, Ser Willem Manderly was just as eager to help Jason don his silver armor and purple cloak as he always had been, a long dirk with a merman hilt from his father rattling at his side as he moved.

"Do I get to come to Pyke and fight with you?" He asked excitedly as he brought out Reaversbane in its worn leather sheath. "I've sailed on ships before with my uncle Wyman, and he told me that one day I'd be an admiral! I even took the wheel once!"

Jason shook his head solemnly.

"Not this time, I'm afraid. You do have an important job, though- I'm sending twenty more men to reinforce Ser Martyn's garrison near Tidereach, and you, Ser Willem, will be leading them."

"I get a real command? Already?" The boy knight's eyes widened.

"Indeed you do- and your own horse from the stables too. You'll ride out tomorrow morning, so best go and pack your things."

As soon as the lord's cloak was fastened, Willem darted off to his quarters, leaving Jason smiling behind him.

"Quite the enthusiastic one, that boy." Maester Haris remarked, shaking his head in amusement as he fell in step with Jason; the two descended briskly down the tower stairs and into the busy courtyard before the great hall, full of soldiers and smallfolk alike going about their business. "I have new letters from Martyn and Alara for you in the rookery, if you wish to read them before you depart."

"Not enough time," Jason replied reluctantly, "we must needs sail within the hour. I trust you to reply to both accordingly- let them know that I've set out for Pyke."

"As you wish, my lord." Haris bowed and took his leave.

In front of the forge and castle armory, Patrek was in the midst of a heated duel with Seagard's new master-at-arms, Tommard Rivers. Long Tom and his bill seemed to be proving more than worthy opponents to the lordling and his sword; after exchanging a blindingly fast series of blows, the two men locked blades, each struggling to overpower the other. Rivers finally aimed a kick at Patrek's knee and sent the younger man tumbling to the grey stone ground in a clatter of silver steel.

"Always go for the footing." Tom quipped knowingly as he helped Patrek up again. "Good day's practice, though- your form is getting better every time. Those Ironborn bastards will never know what hit them."

"I certainly hope not." Jason called out as he approached them. "With me, Patrek- it's time."

After bidding Tom and the remaining members of the High Table farewell, the two descended to the harbor, which in mere hours had been cleared of smallfolk and turned into one massive staging ground, with three thousand men marshaled along the streets, courtyards, and shoreline. The bellowed orders of chiefs, scions, and lords boomed through the narrow alleys as the army's embarkation slowly began, and the throngs of soldiers gradually moved to the docks.

Lord and son watched from the aftcastle of the fleet's flagship, the Mallister war galley  _Silver Hammer,_ as one by one, the thirty-eight ships' sails unfurled, their anchors raised, and they were carried out into the bay by the evening tide. They were miles down the coast when Haris read the scroll from Martyn, and by then, it was already too late.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! As noted in the summary, I originally published this work over at fanfiction.net, so I'll be transferring the chapters over here on a regular basis unless you want to cheat and read ahead over there- the story and author name are the same. 
> 
> Feedback, commentary, and constructive criticism are all welcome! I'm glad to be making my debut here on AO3.


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